The Great Escape
by ladyspock7
Summary: For Gobblepot Positivity Week 2018 on tumblr, the "Saving Each Other" prompt. Set in season 2. Jim busts Oswald out of Arkham, but hiding the emotionally fragile gangster is a lot harder than he'd thought, and more expensive. It becomes a race against time between Jim's dwindling resources and Oswald's return to sanity.
1. Bed of Nails

Jim sometimes wondered what Oswald would do if he grabbed him and kissed him. Certainly it would shut him up for once.

It was a mere whim, he told himself, even if the thought of it stirred something within him, a desire hot and deep that didn't bear too close an examination.

But he was with Lee now, and he wasn't a cheater. And he definitely would not, could not cheat on his significant other with a smirking, evil-minded little crook like Oswald Cobblepot.

No matter how attractive he was.

Or how compelling it was the way Oswald let his exuberant emotions have free rein, lighting up his face with glee or smugness or rage or even sheer terror. Despite his appearance of being wild and unstable, Oswald wielded other people's impressions of him like a knife, with a surgeon's precision, nearly always to their sorrow.

Because his enemies constantly underestimated him and Jim couldn't help but be impressed, though he could never admit it to anyone, least of all Harvey, or Lee.

Something about the way Oswald let it all out, how he never hid what he was feeling, made Jim want to join with that vibrant energy, if he dared take one of the many openings Oswald made for him.

It would be so easy to give in.

And it wasn't as if part of the reason he'd latched onto Lee so quickly was to make sure he definitely would not be free and single the next time Oswald called on him, so as to shield himself from any possibility of entanglement.

Definitely not.

No matter that when he wasn't immediately aware of Jim's presence, which was rare as Oswald always homed in on Jim as soon as he set foot in a room, Oswald had a faraway look in his eye, giving the impression of secret depths, as if he witnessed a vision only he could see.

And it didn't matter if he did look on Jim with intensity, or even devotion if he tried to get poetic about it. Or if Oswald's expressive eyes, framed by those dark lashes, glittered as if he already knew Jim very well, and was more than willing to get to know him even better if only Jim would loosen the hell up once in a while.

Lee was a good person, exactly the sort of woman to whom he should be attracted. She was beautiful and intelligent, though she did sometimes exhibit a certain air of weary expectation as if she knew he would fail to uphold the lofty goals he set for himself, and was simply waiting for the other shoe to drop so she could get on with the chore of forgiving him.

It irked him, but it wouldn't do to bring it up in polite conversation. How would he go about explaining it? That he didn't like how she held him up to certain standards?

Oswald never looked at him that way. For all that Oswald was steeped in the criminal underworld up to his well-groomed eyebrows, Jim felt that he, at least, would understand how difficult it was to be an honest policemen in this cesspool of a city.

And why was he still comparing them, he really needed to stop doing that.

* * *

A lot of things had happened since he first met Oswald.

Theo Galavan happened, for instance.

The events of his life seemed to be divided right at that significant point, the point where Jim well and truly gave in to evil.

If he hadn't pulled the trigger, Oswald would have. Or else kept beating Galavan with that bat until he was dead, it all would have been the same.

Because Jim wouldn't have done anything to stop him. Once he'd committed to the deed there was nothing for it but to follow through. Tie the man up, throw him in the trunk, drive to the deserted beach, stand back while Oswald fetched the bat...

One act after another, in terrible, orderly succession. And Jim hadn't felt the least bit sorry about it at all. Because, deep down, he knew Oswald was right.

Theo Galavan controlled the system in a way Jim had never witnessed before. True, the rich and powerful were subject to their own kind of law and that always frustrated him, but never had he seen anyone play the game like Galavan, never seen anyone so thoroughly escape even the veneer of justice.

It made Jim furious. And even frightened.

Clearly, in this instance, justice needed a helping hand.

* * *

Oswald confessing to the murder was a technicality. He was proud of it, more than happy to take credit for Galavan's death, to claim revenge for his mother.

So it made no difference that Jim was, technically, the killer. Oswald deserved to be in Arkham, for the countless other crimes he'd committed if nothing else.

These were the things Jim kept telling himself in the dead of night.

Except that Oswald was protecting Jim.

He'd tried to visit Oswald again, after he and Harvey saw him in the common room playing a children's game, of all things, but was told by the staff that Oswald Cobblepot was only allowed visitors who were family members, as he was in a critical juncture of his treatment and shouldn't be disturbed for casual acquaintances.

He contacted Professor Strange repeatedly, and was given the runaround. Next he called the Board of Health to petition for the right to see him. After hours of frustrating phone calls, he was denied.

So he went over their heads to the state level, making the same demand and filing a complaint with the ombudsman, though he had no real evidence of abuse or neglect, other than Oswald's right to receive visitors was being violated. Later he found out that Professor Strange had already filed a restraining order against him, accusing him of harassment and interfering with medical procedure.

It got a lot messier after that.

Captain Barnes brought him into his office for a very uncomfortable talk, where Jim found it incredibly difficult to keep a lid on his guilt, and had to answer several probing questions about why he should be so concerned about the treatment of a notorious gangster who had gleefully confessed to murder.

Barnes clearly didn't buy Jim's defense that Cobblepot didn't have any family left to visit him, and ought to have someone around who gave a damn. "He doesn't have anyone else, Sir."

Barnes stared at him for several seconds. "I don't see you going out of your way to get friendly with any of the other perps you sent up the river."

Jim felt his insides writhe in an attempt to escape Barnes's gaze but he forced himself to meet his captain's eyes. "He doesn't have anybody, Sir," he repeated. It sounded feeble even to his own ears. "And it's on my own personal time."

There wasn't much Barnes could say against that, and he'd already lectured Jim on integrity and the importance of not compromising his reputation by associating with a convicted felon. He folded his hands on his desk. "Guess not. But now you've gotten yourself banned from Arkham. Can't go within a hundred feet of Professor Strange, his residence, or his place of work. Understand?"

* * *

Jim did some more quiet digging on his own, ever mindful to keep away from Barnes's scrutiny, doing things he never thought he'd do, like bribing Arkham staff into spying for him.

What he learned disturbed him.

Experiments on corpses and living persons alike. Extreme brainwashing. Torture.

It sounded like something out of a science fiction film.

Jim was losing weight at the thought of Oswald locked up in that place.

The man begged him for help, and Jim had turned away, telling himself it was for the best. It was the only way to stop his own slide into committing more evil deeds in the name of justice.

But if it was the right thing to do, why was he unable to sleep? Why was he losing weight? Food turned his stomach, though he made a show of pushing food around on his plate. Harvey sometimes asked if he was feeling all right, and of course he lied about upset stomach, must be a flu bug going around, that kind of thing, and Harvey would let it go.

Lee was harder to convince. She could tell he was thinking of something else. Someone other than her. The more he denied that anything was wrong, the more the atmosphere at her apartment took on a distinct coldness, and he began spending nights at his own place, which had about as much personality as a hotel room.

On the one night he finally got some sleep, the very day Lee broke up with him, he was plagued by nightmares, by twisted memories of a war he almost never even thought about while awake.

 _The whine of bullets. The tremors of explosions rattling through his bones as shells hit the ground. The numb terror turning his limbs to jelly._

 _He was struggling over sand bags, trying to get to cover, when he heard the whistle of an approaching shell, and in that split second he knew he wasn't going to make it, he was in an awkward place, the wrong position, so only if he was running already would he even have stood a chance...he was dead..._

 _Faster than thought a body crashed into him, carrying him over._

 _Jim slammed into the ground with the man next to him, safely on the other side of the barrier while the shell exploded._

 _After the ground stopped shaking, Jim looked up._

 _Oswald Cobblepot, in a soldier's uniform but helmetless, smirked at him. He opened his mouth and spoke..._

Jim jerked awake flat on his back, the muscles in his neck aching with tension, gasping for breath. Oswald's words had made no sense.

But other words thrummed through his mind, in Jim's own voice.

Never leave a man behind.

* * *

He was haunted from that day forward. The only better description might have been plagued. It rivalled the criminal act he and Oswald blatantly committed on the banks of the river.

He made a few more attempts to get the attention of the Department of Mental Health, though he knew it was a lost cause. They were understaffed and underfunded, with many other urgent cases needing their attention.

Jim already knew what he would do before he thanked them for their time and hung up on them. The meeting was already set.

He was light-headed and euphoric, quite possibly delusional from sleep deprivation, but he went to the nearest diner and wolfed down the blue plate special with a greater appetite than he'd had for weeks.

Fortified, he went to meet with Victor Zsasz.

Tracking the hit man down without Harvey finding out had been a trick and a half, since Jim shamelessly raided his partner's rolodex and leaned on Harvey's informants, paying them money he could ill-afford to keep them quiet.

Jim was still so new to Gotham that his own informant-network was pretty sparse, mainly consisting of...well, Oswald.

Jim managed it mainly because Harvey simply couldn't believe Jim would ever do anything so mind-boggingly stupid as to bust somebody out of Arkham.

* * *

Oswald curled up tight in the cot, shivering in the damp cell, clutching the thin grey government-issued blanket to his chin. A pattern of mold crawled up the wall in the corner by the window but he never complained about it anymore.

Complaining was bad.

His breath hitched in his throat. He was so bad. He didn't want to be bad anymore.

It would disappoint Professor Strange and Ms. Peabody, and absolutely the last thing in the world he wanted was to disappoint Professor Strange and Ms. Peabody.

The shaking gripped him and he hugged himself tighter.

Disappointing them, that was...that was the wrong thought. The wrong motivation. He shouldn't want to stop being bad because it would disappoint them, he was supposed to...to want...

His thoughts, already rather muddled these days, were getting even more tangled under the growing terror he couldn't seem to keep down. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to think, supposed to want, supposed to feel. A fissure of pain flared behind his eyeballs and began the inexorable spread through his skull.

Oh no. Not now. This wasn't supposed to happen now. The next treatment wasn't for two days, but it was as if the physical sensations caused by that horrible machine couldn't wait to get started.

"Help me," he whispered, then clamped a hand over his mouth.

It was long past lights out, he wasn't supposed to make a fuss. That, too, would disappoint them. Images of Professor Strange's patient, calculating smile and Ms. Peabody's cold eyes swam across the insides of his closed eyelids.

The growing ache in his bad leg began to compete for attention with the throbbing pain in his head. It hurt from his ankle all the way up to his hip. He hoped they got him the pain medication soon, just a simple over-the-counter ibuprofen, he felt that he'd asked for it very politely last time, and patiently spelled out the name on the label. Professor Strange and Ms. Peabody hadn't seemed very interested at the time, but Oswald was sure they'd heard him.

So any day now. He just had to be patient.

He withstood it as long as possible, until it grew into a stabbing pain, and at last he began to ease over onto his other side as quietly as possible.

A sudden thump, followed by a little groaning sigh, and a thud out in the corridor froze him in place, every muscle rigid with terror.

A memory from his past life, which felt as if it had occurred a million years ago, surfaced.

That series of particular noises sounded exactly like somebody getting whacked on the head, letting out a little groan, and hitting the floor.

 _No, no, no, that wasn't it, I must be mistaken,_ he thought, sweat breaking out under his hair. He must have misheard, must have imagined it.

No, none of it had happened, because he couldn't remember any of those bad things, really, all of those bad things he'd done and the bad sounds, it had nothing to do with him!

He lay frozen, terrified, heart pounding. Mercifully, the pain in his head subsided, as if it, too, were waiting.

Voices. Talking low, not quite whispering. A chuckle.

That...sounded familiar, too.

Before he could figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing, footsteps approached. At least two people. The click of a woman's heels.

Ms. Peabody?

No. Oh God, please, no. She didn't usually work at night.

His heart sped up until he thought he would have a heart attack. She'd be so unhappy if she saw that he was awake instead of sleeping like a good boy should.

The solid chunk of the heavy lock opening on the door made him flinch back under the blanket. He squeezed his eyes shut and remained still.

Footsteps entered the cell, another whispered voice. Definitely not Ms. Peabody, thank all that was holy. One of the doctors? A nurse? He felt that he knew her, too, but not from Arkham.

A hand fell on his blanketed shoulder. "Hey. Penguin," said a voice.

He was startled enough to open his eyes and raise his head, making the blanket fall back.

Victor Zsasz grinned down at him. "Ready to blow this joint?"

Oswald screamed.

* * *

Victor clamped a hand over the Penguin's mouth. He looked over his shoulder at his compadres. "Think we got a problem, girls."

Lovey and Tiff glanced at each other. "No shit," Tiff grumbled, and went to watch at the door. "We got five minutes before the next guard does rounds."

"One guard. Just kill him," Lovey said with a shrug.

Tiff clicked her tongue. "He'll be missed. Too many."

"And whose fault is that?" Lovey put her hands on her hips and frowned at the Penguin, who was sobbing helplessly under Zsasz's hand. "He don't even recognize us."

Victor was momentarily at a loss. The Penguin, one of the meanest, most violent little sons of bitches he'd ever met, who should have leaped at the chance to escape, lame leg or not, was trying to pull the blanket back over his head.

"Boss, it's me," he said. "Victor Zsasz. Remember? You know Tiff? And Lovey?" He gestured at the girls.

The Penguin quieted and his wild eyes darted toward the girls before returning to Victor's face. Victor could feel the panicked breaths flaring in and out of the Penguin's nostrils slow down, and cautiously he took his hand away from his mouth. "Do you know us?"

The Penguin stared at him and drew a shuddering breath, then swallowed hard and gave him a timid nod, a mere jerking of his head, but the light of recognition seemed to have clicked on somewhere behind that jittery gaze.

Victor tried an encouraging smile. "Yeah. 'Course you do. Like, remember that time we broke into the commissioner's house and I chopped that security guard's head right..."

Cobblepot's face turned stark with horror and he drew a huge breath.

Zsasz clamped his hand over his mouth just in time.

Lovey made an exasperated noise in her throat. "He's a giant fucking mess. What'll we do, leave him?"

Zsasz shook his head, frowning. The Penguin was sobbing again, his eyes squeezed shut. Muffled words trembled out of his mouth, and it almost sounded like he was calling for help.

Zsasz wasn't normally moved by pity or any other emotion, but an uneasy feeling nudged at what was left of his conscience. What little he'd seen of Arkham, he didn't particularly care to see any more, and he didn't want to leave Cobblepot here.

If the Penguin could get his mind right, there'd be steady work for Zsasz and the girls again, no doubt about it.

Besides, there were their reputations to think of. They were professionals with a job to do.

"The job's the same. Get him out, deliver him to Gordon. We need a gag. I know somebody's got one." He snapped his fingers. "Come on, chop chop."


	2. Straight Outta Arkham

Jim couldn't bear to wait in the van any longer. He paced a nervous perimeter around it until he realized he was too conspicuous, and came to rest in a wedge of shadow. He shoved his hands under his armpits, to warm them up and to stop from drumming his fingers on the van's chassis.

Not that there was anyone around. No nightlife to speak of, as there weren't any bars or restaurants in the area, just some ancient apartment buildings and defunct stores with boarded up windows. Even Gotham's permanent homeless population avoided the streets surrounding Arkham Asylum, as if it radiated such despair and horror that no one would risk seeking shelter in any building within three blocks of the place.

Better to shelter in graveyards.

Jim checked the time again. Still within the parameters Zsasz had set, which were, to use Zsasz's words, 'oh, about an hour and a half, I guess,' but Jim fretted nevertheless.

Jim had truly plunged off the deep end but despite the turmoil of his thoughts, the doubts, the second-guessing, he felt invigorated because he was taking action, his preferred mode of being.

The truth was that Jim couldn't wait to see Oswald again. Even if the man was angry enough to take a swing at him. Jim wouldn't be surprised; Oswald most likely had no idea of Jim's efforts to have his treatment evaluated by an outside party.

At last he heard footsteps.

He peered warily around the van. Could be a few brave homeless, or incredibly desperate ones. Or others like Jim, on secret missions of their own.

Soft footsteps and the click of heels-Tiff wore stilettos- and the sound of panting as if someone labored under a heavy load.

And there was Zsasz coming around a corner, bent almost double under Oswald's weight.

"What happened? Is he hurt?" Jim yanked on the handle and opened the side door.

"No talking. Gotta go," Lovey snapped, getting in the driver's side.

"Shotgun," Tiff sang, taking the front passenger seat.

Victor fell into the van, Oswald rolling off his shoulders.

As Jim clambered in after him, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. They'd tied Oswald up?

Lovey hit the gas and the van shot forward, almost throwing Jim onto Victor and bowling Oswald over and it took a moment for Jim to right himself.

Keeping a hand on the wall of the lightly swaying van, Jim stepped over Victor to where Oswald lay huddled on his side, as he hadn't tried to sit up. Jim had only gotten a glimpse in the dim light, but...

Oswald's bulging eyes stared at Jim, a ball gag in his mouth and his hands lashed together with zip ties.

Jim snapped, "A ball gag? Are you kidding me?"

Zsasz hadn't tried to sit up either. "Had to. He was screaming. Ohhh, my back."

Lovey snorted. "Wuss."

"Maybe if someone helped carry him," Victor said petulantly.

"Not in these heels," Tiff said.

"Check my contract," Lovey said, grinning over her shoulder. "No heavy lifting. He don't weigh much, whatcha whining about?"

"You try carrying him two blocks," Victor groaned, and draped an arm over his eyes.

Jim knelt next to Oswald and reached for his shoulders, helping him sit up, then reached to undo the gag.

"He's gonna start yelling again," Tiff said in a sing-song voice.

Jim set his jaw and unbuckled the straps and got the gag off, flinging it aside with disgust.

Oswald didn't yell, but merely stared at Jim with wide eyes. Jim got out his jackknife and cut off the zip ties.

He grabbed Jim's head.

Startled, Jim took hold of Oswald's wrists, but he didn't try pulling the other man's hands away. Oswald didn't appear to be touching him with ill intent.

Oswald's overly bright eyes roved over Jim's face. He gently moved Jim's head from side to side, peering closely, eyebrows scrunched together.  
After finishing his examination, he let his hands drop, but the pinched, worried expression in his face didn't change. He asked in a hoarse whisper, "Could you show me the back of your head, please?"

The back of... "Uh. Okay."

Jim shuffled around to the side and showed Oswald the back of his head, turning back to face him when Oswald heaved a sigh.

"All healed up," Oswald murmured, sounding confused.

"What do you mean?"

"But the hole was so big." Oswald shuddered. "I'm so sorry, Jim. It must've hurt."

"What must've hurt?"

"The bullet. When I shot you. Walked you to the end of the pier and shot you."

The hairs on the back of Jim's neck stood on end.

Street lights passed over the van's interior, highlighting the tears running down Oswald's cheeks. "I didn't mean to kill you. Shouldn't've done that. It was..."

Jim seized one of Oswald's shoulders. "Oswald, I'm alive," he said, lowering his head so he could meet Oswald's eyes. "You did not shoot me," he said, emphasizing each word.

Oswald sniffled and swallowed hard. "I didn't?"

Fuck. This was bad.

"No, you didn't," he said firmly. He almost pointed out the obvious, that he could hardly be talking to Oswald if he was dead, but thought better of it. Clearly, the obvious was not having much of an effect.

He tried a smile. "You saw my head. No extra holes."

Oswald still looked worried, as if he wasn't so sure he could really accept Jim's word for it, but seemed to decide it would be polite to believe him. "Okay, Jim."

He sat with his back against the van's wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands lying in his lap.

Jim gingerly sat next to him, dread curling in his stomach. He would have liked to argue his case for being alive more strongly, but wasn't sure it would help.

Oswald lifted his head. "Oh, of course," he said in an amazed tone of voice. He turned to Jim, his eyes glimmering with an awareness that hadn't been there before, as if he'd woken from sleep.

"I remember now. You had the gun. You forced me to walk to the end of the pier and then you pretended to shoot me." His voice got high with excitement and his face lit up as if it were one of his happiest memories. "Isn't that right, Jim?"

"Uh..." Jim forced a smile for Oswald's sake, who seemed truly happy to have gotten it sorted out properly. "Yeah, that's right."

Oswald smiled big, his eyes crinkling up, then he sobered, and it was as if a light dimmed. "I get confused. I can't tell if what I'm remembering is real or if it's the...the machine..."

Abruptly his jaw clenched and he clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders convulsing.

Jim shouted, "Stop the van! Stop the van!"

They screeched to a halt and Jim flung open the back door just in time.

Oswald staggered to the open door and bent over the bumper, retching grey vomit. Jim held onto his striped shirt to keep him from falling out.

The spasms eased and Oswald got back into the van, huddling against the inside wall. Jim reached across him to slam the door shut, then fished around in his pockets until he found an old napkin.

"It's a little greasy. Sorry," Jim said quietly as he handed it to him.

Oswald hiccuped and wiped his lips with it. "I'm so terribly sorry about this. Sometimes thinking about the..." His eyes darted around, then he leaned close to Jim's ear. "The you-know-what," he whispered. "It makes me physically ill."

His face crumpled. "I'm so embarrassed. It's disgusting. You must..."

Impulsively, Jim cupped his face with both hands. "Oswald, it's all right. You're just not feeling well right now." With his thumb he wiped away a tear. "I'm a first responder, Oswald, and I've been overseas. You know? Seen a lot worse than a little puke."

Oswald gave Jim a little smile, but then he grimaced and clutched at his leg.

"It hurts? Do you take something for it?" Jim asked.

"Professor Strange will be sure to give me something," Oswald said. "Or Ms. Peabody. By tomorrow, I'm sure. When are we going back?"

Jim stared, at a loss, but was saved from thinking up an answer when Victor walked over to them and coughed in a meaningful way. "Can I have a word?" he said, jerking his head toward the side door.

Jim joined him a little distance down the deserted sidewalk. Victor crossed his arms and stuck his tongue in his cheek as he ran his gaze around the street. "Soooo, don't want to be nosy, but what's your overall plan here, Jimbo?"

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "Well. Um. I was going to take him back to my apartment. Take him in the back way."

"Hm." Victor pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully at the ground. "And then?"

"I thought he could stay with me a little while until the heat died down. And, well, then he'd take back his club."

Heavy silence settled around them. Jim's face grew hot as his plan, which had seemed perfectly sound in the privacy of his own head, showed itself as the sad, pathetic thing it truly was once spoken aloud. There were a hell of a lot of missing steps.

Victor pursed his lips. "Got a plan B?" He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows.

"Uhhh..." It was the best Jim could come up with.

"Not so good with master plans, eh, Jimbo?"

"He wasn't this bad before," Jim said heatedly. "When I saw him last, he wasn't so..." He gestured at the van, then let his arm fall. "I don't know. Lost."

Maybe Jim had been fooling himself. Some part of him wanted to believe Oswald had been putting on an act in the Arkham common room, playing that game...what was it, 'Duck, Duck, Goose'? Pretending to play along to get that Peabody woman off his back.

Oswald wasn't crazy, no matter what he'd flippantly claimed at the police station when they'd brought him in. An evil-minded little bastard, yes, but not crazy.

But that was before Arkham. Now Jim wasn't so sure.

Victor sucked his teeth. "Could be they tried brainwashing him."

Jim stared. "You think he's been subjected to some sort of conditioning?"

"Yep. But I don't think they finished the job."

"How do you know?"

"Professional opinion. Take a guy and break him down so he doesn't know which way is up. Make him dependent on you so you're the only one that matters. Once he's at rock bottom, you drop in the qualities you want, or give him his orders or whatever, and bibbity bobbity boo," he snapped his fingers, "brainwashed."

"But why? What does Strange want him to do?"

Victor shrugged. "Beats me. Like I said, I don't think the good doctor got to finish up. Cobblepot seems sorta open to suggestion. Clingy. Latched onto you right away. Could be all he needs is some R and R and he could go back to how he was before."

Jim rubbed his neck. It was ridiculous to feel pleased that Oswald had 'latched onto' him, as Zsasz put it, not when Oswald wasn't even in his right mind. "How much time?"

Victor made a noncommital grunt. "Few weeks. Months? I dunno. Never _un_ -brainwashed anybody before."

Jim sighed. He wasn't particularly keen on extending his association with these hired killers, but he was feeling out of his depth, the waters getting deeper every minute. Oswald was in far worse shape than he'd anticipated and Jim needed help, with very few options. Almost no options, really.

Maybe he could call Harvey...

He winced. No. Not even remotely possible.

At least Victor and his girls weren't simply dumping both him and Oswald on the nearest corner, as they had every right to do. They'd fulfilled their end of the bargain, and weren't really under any further obligation.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

Victor clapped him on the shoulder. "Jim, this is your lucky day. Just so happens we know a safe house on Winslet Corner."

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Even with the heat on full blast, Oswald was shivering. Jim took off his leather jacket and draped it over his shoulders. Oswald clutched it with pale fingers and stared at nothing.

Jim sat next to him on the floor of the van, shoulder to shoulder. He wasn't that much bigger than Oswald, but Jim's jacket engulfed the other man, as if his time in Arkham had shrunk him, making him lose height as well as weight.

Slowly Oswald's head drooped and settled onto Jim's shoulder. Jim held still, but when the van made a sudden jolt, Oswald jerked awake, eyes wide with panic. "I was asleep, Professor," he said, voice shaking. "I really was!" He lurched to his feet.

Jim reached for his arm. "Oswald, it's all right. Sit down."

Oswald gulped and drew a shuddering breath. "You'll tell him, won't you? I-I-I'm supposed to be sleeping right now. Please tell him. There's so much trouble when I don't do the right thing. I've been good, I swear, I swear-"

"Oswald!" Jim was on his feet, and he gripped Oswald's shoulders, putting a stop to the breathless monologue. "It's all right," he said, looking into Oswald's eyes. "I know you were asleep. Everything's okay."

Oswald was shaking. "You'll tell Professor Strange? That I've been good?"

"I'll...I'll make sure to tell him," Jim said, heart sinking.

Oswald's face broke into a sweet, relieved smile. "Oh, thank you, Jim. You're very kind," he said, resuming his seat.

Jim sat heavily next to him again, too, feeling like a heel. The lie left a bad taste in his mouth.

When they pulled into a garage and Victor slid open the side door and announced, "Home away from home. Come on, boss. It's the Winslet place. You been here."

Oswald shrank back, clutching Jim's jacket close around his shoulders. "N-no. I don't...don't think... was this approved by Professor Strange?"

Victor paused for a beat, then said brightly, "That's right. Heard it from the man's lips himself."

"Hold on, hold it," Jim protested, as Oswald began to stand up.

Tiff groaned. "Come ooonnn, he was almost out. Gonna stand here all night?"

"Could carry him in," Victor said. "Long as Jim helps."

"Just wait a second." Jim rubbed his forehead. They were setting a precedent, here, and Jim wanted to do this right, or at least as right as he could make it.

"He's confused enough as it is," Jim said. "We have to give him straight answers. No more lies."

Victor tilted his head, considering. "Could have a point."

Lovey nodded. "Cop's right. Gotta bring him back to reality."

Tiff groaned and rolled her eyes. "Fiiiine. So how do we get him into the house?"

Oswald's eyes darted around from face to face with growing uneasiness.

Jim licked his lips and thought about how to proceed. "Oswald, do you trust me?"

Oswald blinked. "Of course, Jim."

"Then come inside with me." He held out his hand. "Take my hand. It'll be all right. You can trust them, too," he added, as Oswald's hollow eyes darted toward Victor and his girls.

Oswald got up, standing as tall as the van's roof allowed, and clasped Jim's hand.

He held Jim's hand the short distance across the attached garage and into the house, as trusting as a child.

Jim flicked the switch on in a mudroom, but only got a glimpse of a washer and dryer, coats on hooks on the wall, boxes of cleaning detergents on shelves, when Lovey smacked the switch off again.

Briefly blinded in the sudden dark, Jim started as Lovey grabbed his upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip and hissed, "Jesus fucking Christ, we have to check the place first."

"Thought this was a safe house," Jim said, taken aback.

"Forgive him, Lovey," Victor said. "The good detective doesn't know much about the finer points of staying under the radar."

"I've guarded plenty of witnesses," Jim said, feeling indignant. "I think I know something about staying under the radar."

There was enough faint light from a window that he could make out Victor's pitying expression. "What, like witness protection? Staying at a hotel under a fake name while the other cops bring you snacks? Stuff like that?"

Jim felt his face flush. "Uh..."

"We're hiding from cops _and_ criminals, Jimbo. Nobody can know we're here. Might be squatters found a way in."

With that, Victor and the girls drew their guns.

Jim grabbed Victor's arm before he could stalk away. "Wait a minute. You're going to kill anyone you find? Even if it's just some poor schmuck who wanted out of the weather?"

"Poor schmucks talk," Victor said.

"No," Jim said, through his teeth.

"Jim," Victor said in a light, cajoling sort of voice. "Me and the girls are going above and beyond the call of duty, here. And that's on top of the discount for the original job."

"That was a discount?" It had wiped out a third of Jim's savings.

"We haven't gotten to negotiating this new deal we got going on here." He waggled his fingers around at the house, and Oswald. "But if you're willing to take the risk for some rando bum flapping his gums and it lands in the wrong ears, well, it's going to cost you."

"So I have to pay you not to kill them."

"Bingo."

"Must be a first. Paying you not to kill," Jim muttered, and began reaching for his wallet.

Which is when he realized Oswald was still holding his hand.

He cleared his throat. "Can I have my hand back a sec, Oswald?'" he asked, and Oswald released him, with some reluctance.

Jim was glad it was dark, because he was blushing hard. He took out his wallet. "Look, all I have on me is seventy-two dollars. Can I owe you?"

Victor let out a long, put-upon sigh. "Tell you what. We'll discuss the fee if we turn up any squatters." He turned to go, then came back, snatching the wallet and taking the bills out of it. "Oh, hey, I can pay them off to keep them quiet. That works pretty good, too."

"Pay them...why didn't you say that before?" Jim snapped.

Victor shrugged and followed Lovey and Tiff as they disappeared into the house.

"Poor squatters," Oswald murmured. "It's so cold in here. Do you think we should find them something to eat?"

"Let's hope they don't find anyone," Jim said, putting his considerably lightened wallet back in his pocket.

Oswald shyly brushed his hand against Jim's, a silent plea, and Jim was quick to take his hand again. Oswald edged closer still, as if soaking up Jim's warmth, and together they stood there in the dark, waiting for the assassins to come back.

Bizarre? Sure. But when Oswald laid his head against Jim's shoulder in weariness, Jim had to resist the urge to stroke his hair. That would be taking it too far. As if he wasn't already neck-deep in trouble.

The house proved free of squatters, fortunately, and all of them went into the furnished basement. Lovey got the furnace running while Victor and Tiff turned on the TV and the oven, announcing it was pizza time.

Jim got Oswald settled in a bedroom. Oswald followed obediently enough, but he asked expectantly when he would be returning to Arkham.

"Not right now," Jim said, too weary to think up a better answer other than evasion. "You need to sleep."

He found some Advil in the bathroom which Oswald swallowed without questioning what it was.

"I'll bring you some clothes tomorrow," Jim said.

"Why?"

"Don't you want to change?" he asked, gesturing at Oswald's striped Arkham uniform.

Oswald looked down, then up again, thoroughly bewildered. "It's not laundry day. Does Professor Strange want me to change?"

Jim fought down a sudden desire to find Strange and beat the crap out of him. "Let's talk more tomorrow. Why don't you get some sleep?" he said, making his voice steady.

Oswald crawled under the covers of the narrow bed and closed his eyes.

Jim laid out an extra blanket he found in a closet, then slipped out of the room, turning off the light as he went.

Not long ago, having Oswald cooperative and non-snarky would have been a dream come true for Jim, but now he would give anything to see the gleam of wickedness in Oswald's eye again.

Whatever the price.


	3. The Finer Points of Penguin Care

In the wee hours of the morning, Jim shuffled back to his apartment, his mind spinning and his chest tight with anxiety about the latest hit to his bank account.

He was expected to cough up five thousand tomorrow for Zsasz and the girls. A retaining fee, they said! Plus four hundred per assassin, per week. First week's payment due in advance. Thank God he was getting his next paycheck soon.

It was just possible to squeak by, if he was very, very careful, stopped eating out, stopped drinking, switched to his cheaper wash-and-wear suits and quit the dry cleaners, cancelled his cable. He was rarely home to watch TV and only watched about two channels anyway.

Could he skimp on his credit card payments for a couple of months? He grimaced, wishing he'd saved those junk mail offers for new cards at lower interest rates. He wondered if his junk mail was still in the recycling bin, but was too tired to go check.

God, what in the hell was he doing? The enormity of his actions pressed down on him as he curled up in bed, hugging a pillow to his chest.

This was no one-time desperate act. He was in it for the long haul.

Like the killing of Galavan, the repercusions would reverberate throughout his life, setting off consequences beyond his imagining.

Unexpectedly, the memory surfaced of Oswald jamming that umbrella down Galavan's throat. Jim hadn't turned away or tried to stop it, because what was the point, the guy was dead, but watched nonetheless with horrified fascination.

 _That sent one hell of a message_ , Jim thought uncontrollably, with a touch of savage pride.

Word had gotten around about the state of the corpse, Jim heard the whispers. The coroner must've talked, or the EMTs. It enhanced Oswald's reputation, for sure. Nobody fucked with the Penguin, or the Penguin's own.

But now? This new Oswald was too timid to even pick up a flyswatter. The man was a wreck, and it was Jim's fault.

He couldn't stand it. If Zsasz was right then it should simply be a matter of time. Oswald just needed some care, time to recover from his ordeal, and he would go back to normal.

Hopefully.

And if normal for Oswald was being a hyperactive, self-absorbed, borderline psychopath with a knack for murderous rampages, then so be it.

Because Oswald was also brilliant and ambitious, and he loved this rotten city as much as Jim did. Arrogant, sure, but sensitive, and generous to those loyal to him, and for those he loved. Where Jim covered up his emotions, Oswald gave them free rein, and...

...and Jim wanted him back.

Wanting wasn't the same as getting, however, and he would have to be extremely careful not to get caught, otherwise he'd go to jail and Oswald would get shipped right back to Arkham, and not a damn thing Jim could do about it.

After lying in bed for three hours staring at the walls and wondering if he owned anything worth selling on ebay, his eyes finally started to feel heavy right around the time he needed to start thinking about getting up for work.

Didn't matter. He'd gone without sleep before. Tonight he would catch up.

* * *

The hum and buzz of the station was so ordinary.

Just like the morning after he and Oswald killed a man, the world continued to turn, indifferent.

It was deceiving, of course. The world was merely currently unaware of what happened. Once the escape was reported, Jim would be subjected to some standard questioning, simply because of his close association with the man. Probably not today, unless whoever got the case was really on the ball, but soon.

He made his way to his desk, grunted hello at Harvey, who of course just had to be on time today, and immediately buried himself in the files from the inbox.

"Late night, huh?" Harvey said.

He kept his eyes on the paper in front of him and shrugged.

"Hope she was worth it," Harvey said, and Jim couldn't miss the lascivious grin in his peripheral vision.

A few moments passed in which Jim almost got to the point where the words in front of him were actually making sense, when Harvey cleared his throat. "Y'know, I been thinking..." Harvey folded his newspaper in a distracted way. "I could go visit Oswald for ya."

The words sent a jolt through Jim's brain that nearly made him black out. "Oh. Visit?" He was amazed his voice sounded so normal.

"Yeah." Harvey scratched his head and readjusted his hat, grimacing a little sheepishly. "I can go check on the little bastard for you. The restraining order doesn't apply to me. Write him a letter, I'll bring it along."

Jim exhaled, remembered to breathe normally, struggled to get his brain working. "I don't think they're letting him see anyone."

Harvey drummed a pencil with his fingers. "Huh. Well, how's about I pretend to go ask him about a case. An official visit. They'd probably let me in, then."

"No, that's not necessary. You shouldn't bother."

"Really? You seemed so worried about him last week. Makin' all those calls."

Jim couldn't quite meet Harvey's eye. "Maybe he is a lost cause after all. I did what I could, made the old college try, but he's probably better off where he is."

He offered Harvey a sincere enough smile, and said, "But thank you. I appreciate it."

Which he did. Appreciated Harvey's effort at goodwill, certainly.

Getting up from his desk he went to get some coffee and to escape his partner's puzzled frown.

Alone in the canteen, he smacked himself in the head.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, he was a grade A idiot. He should have accepted. Harvey would've gone to Arkham, and come back all abuzz with news of Oswald's miraculous escape, and Jim would've been free to express his complete and utter surprise, wow, how about that, wonder who sprang Penguin? Yeah, that's crazy, Harv, never saw that coming.

Harvey would remember Jim's sudden lack of interest in Oswald's welfare, now.

* * *

Around noon he gave Harvey the slip so he could chat with other officers about unusual disturbances at Arkham, but there was no report about a break-out or a patient gone missing.

The Penguin was a high-profile inmate, and they didn't see fit to warn the public of the escape of a convicted murderer?

It sent his nerves into overdrive. They must have noticed Oswald's absence long before now. What the hell was going on in that place?

He knew damn well that Zsasz and the girls must have caused at least one guard a serious injury, at the very least, he knew they hadn't gone too far out of their way to avoid mayhem. Didn't the staff care about their co-workers?

It would've been suspicious if he kept asking questions about an apparently non-existent break-in, so he went back to his own work.

Doing his best to ignore the low-level dread curdling his stomach, he fell into the familiar rhythm of bantering with Harvey, went through the motions of avoiding Dr. Thompkins, which was easy enough as she was equally invested on avoiding him as well, and somehow he managed to make it through the day.

He'd told Zsasz to text him if anything happened, but despite Jim checking his phone approximately a hundred times an hour, there was silence from the safe house.

As soon as his shift was over he stopped by an ATM to get cash, and made the unnerving discovery there was a five hundred dollar daily limit on withdrawals. When did _that_ start? Shit. Zsasz and the girls would have to be satisfied with five hundred until he could get to the bank tomorrow.

Eyes like sandpaper, he headed to the Winslet place, feeling as if his mind was disconnected from his body and constantly hurrying to catch up.

In his exhausted state it would be easy to fall into carelessness. He took a circuitous route, and checked the rear view mirror constantly, and only then was he satisfied he wasn't being followed.

 _Somebody_ must know Oswald was at large. Why Strange hadn't informed the GCPD mystified him.

Maybe Strange had his own staff out looking for Oswald, though Jim found it hard to believe the man had enough staff to send on a search mission, certainly not nearly as much manpower as the GCPD.

Jim needed to keep a low profile, make sure he wasn't being followed. Safest that way.

It was highly unlikely anyone could connect Jim to Oswald's emancipation in any case. That was why Zsasz refused to bring Jim along for Oswald's break-out, to make absolutely certain Jim couldn't be identified. If any of the Arkham staff spotted the assassins and lived to tell about it, it would be assumed they'd acted on their own or at the behest of a criminal ally of Oswald's.

Zsasz and the girls couldn't care less if they were fingered. Jim, however, would be all too easy to track down.

But could someone have spotted Jim waiting with the van? He hadn't seen a single living soul, which didn't necessarily mean someone wasn't watching from the shadows.

He almost would have preferred Dr. Strange striding into the station to confront him, demanding the return of his patient, demanding Jim's arrest. At least Jim could have the satisfaction of punching that smug asshole in the face.

His hands twitched on the wheel and he forced himself to relax. He needed to be calm. Oswald wasn't going to be helped by Jim beating up Dr. Strange, as satisfying as that would be.

* * *

Ever the detective, Jim took a quick glance into one of the rooms in the house before he went downstairs, to get some idea of who might have once lived here. The ornately carved wooden chairs and table in a dining room were covered with dust along with a full table setting, with candles in their holders, also dusty and stringy with cobwebs, burned down long ago to cold stubs.

As if the previous occupants had been prepared for a night of entertaining, but ended up leaving so abruptly they didn't snuff the flames.

Victor Zsasz was alone in the living room of the furnished basement, watching TV. The furniture down here wasn't as fancy as upstairs, but perfectly serviceable.

He didn't seem particularly upset that Jim didn't have the full payment, maybe because Jim was in it up to his neck and in no position to cut and run.

"Get the rest tomorrow, Jimbo," Zsasz warned, putting the envelope in his inner pocket and stretching out on the couch again. "Lovey gets real touchy about stuff like this. The girls went out. Penguin keeps asking when he's going back to Arkham."

"Did he eat?"

"TV dinner in the oven. It'll be ready pretty soon, if you wanna bring him out."

Jim frowned. "Why are you keeping him in there?"

"I'm not. Never said he had to _stay_ in there," Zsasz said without taking his eyes off the screen. "He just does. Probably better for him right now, anyway. Think he misses his little cell. Plus he's scared of us."

Jim walked across the living room to the bedroom.

"Wait a sec," Zsasz said, sitting up halfway to look over the back of the couch at Jim. "Don't talk about his treatment, or the machine. He might upchuck again.

"I was trying to figure out if the TV was triggering him," he said, shrugging at Jim's questioning look. "'Cuz he was looking a little freaked out about something, so I'm guessing there's certain images. Or catchphrases. He said soomething about needles in his eyes, then, bleahhhh."

The abrupt sweeping gesture Zsasz made with his hand from stomach to mouth was more than adequate. "At least he made it to the sink."

Jim huffed out a slow breath and eyed the silent door for a little while before knocking. There was no answer so after waiting a few moments, he pushed it open a crack. "Oswald?"

The room was in pitch blackness.

"Yes, Jim?"

Jim pushed it open wider.

Oswald sat on the edge of the neatly made single bed, in a rectangle of light from the open door, blinking and squinting with his hands clasped together on his lap. "Good morning," he said, his lips twitching into a frantic smile.

"It's evening."

"Oh, is it? Then good evening."

Jim edged closer. "How are you feeling?"

"Yes, very good, thank you," Oswald murmured.

"Why are the lights off? Were you sleeping?" Jim wondered if he'd interrupted a nap.

Oswald blinked nervously. "I...I don't..." His hands twitched up and down his legs before he clasped them together again as if he had to force them to stop moving.

"The light switch is right over here," Jim said, clicking on the overhead light. "You can turn it on anytime you want."

The smile dropped from Oswald's face and his forehead wrinkled into a puzzled frown. "Anytime you want," he repeated slowly. His mouth trembled and he swallowed hard. "Is that what I want?"

Jim almost asked Oswald if it was okay to sit next to him, then thought better of it, because he had the feeling it could lead to an hours'-long discussion, but he watched Oswald for signs of unease as he crossed the room and sat next to him, settling his weight on the bed. He didn't want to intrude or freak him out.

Oswald merely stared at him with a bewildered expression.

Jim cleared his throat and wiped his mouth. "If you feel like sitting in the dark, you can. But you can turn on the switch anytime, if you want. This is your room."

Oswald stared at him, then looked down at his lap. "Okay." He didn't sound very sure of himself. Oswald's stomach growled.

"Have you eaten yet?"

"Supper is at 6 o'clock. All inmates will proceed to the cafeteria in an orderly manner," Oswald said, with a sudden authoritative voice that almost sounded like his old self.

"I think it's after seven," Jim said.

Oswald, incredibly, looked even more crestfallen. "I missed it," he whispered.

"It'll be a late supper," Jim said. "How's that sound?"

"Eating outside the proscribed hours is strictly against regulations," Oswald said, voice trembling. "I don't think Dr. Strange would approve."

"Well, Dr. Strange isn't here, and we're doing things differently," Jim said firmly. "Come on."

Jim stood up and walked out of the room, pausing to look back.

Oswald cautiously stepped up to the open door, and stopped at the threshold, his fingers opening and closing convulsively, eyes darting about the room with such a helpless expression that Jim's heart ached.

Jim held out his hand, as he'd done the night before when he coaxed Oswald out of the van. "C'mon," he said, with an encouraging smile. "Time to eat."

Oswald smiled timidly and allowed Jim to lead him to the table.

A glance into the sink showed that someone had cleaned it, fortunately. The smell of bleach stung his nostrils. At least the assassins didn't think cleaning up was beneath them.

Oswald ate mechanically, hunched over the table as if worried someone would steal his food. He ate everything on the tray.

Having missed supper himself, Jim found a microwavable burger and heated it up. Every item of food in the fridge was prepackaged, and bags of chips and other snacks were piled on the counters. None of the assassins were into cooking or fresh food, apparently.

After Oswald was finished, Zsasz announced cheerfully, "Time for the bathroom, boss."

Oswald brought the empty aluminum tray to the counter and headed into the bathroom on the other side of the living room.

After the door closed behind him, Jim turned to Zsasz with a scowl. "I think he can decide some things for himself."

Zsasz rolled his eyes. "Uhhh, hel-lo, actually, no, he can't. He can't even decide if he wants the lights on or not. You seen him."

"Has he been like this all day?"

"Well, he never held _my_ hand," Zsasz said, flashing a grin. "But yeah. Pretty much."

Distressed, Jim flopped down into an armchair and hung his head in his hands.

Zsasz yawned and stretched. "We already told him he can leave his room whenever he wants, but he won't budge unless he's got permission. This morning Tiff found him all curled up and guessed he was holding it in. So, regular bathroom breaks."

"He didn't even...even ask?"

"Dr. Strange controlled everything."

Jim dragged a hand through his hair. "Shit."

"Don't take it so hard, Jimbo. Only the first day."

There was a polite knock from the bathroom.

"He's done," Zsasz said, pushing to his feet.

When Zsasz opened the bathroom door, Oswald limped out, favoring his bad leg, and Jim realized he'd forgotten to ask about pain meds.

"Did that Advil help any?" he asked, getting up.

Oswald wrapped his arms around his chest and eyed Zsasz warily, shaking his head, but Jim couldn't tell if that meant the pills hadn't helped or if he didn't want to say anything in front of Zsasz.

"Do you need some other kind of pill?" Jim asked.

Oswald shrugged, nervously dragged his fingers through his hair, and at last mumbled, "Tylenol extra-strength."

He watched Victor as the other man walked back to the couch, then leaned close to Jim. "Jim, Victor is a bad man," Oswald said in a too-loud stage whisper, frantic and intense. "A bad, _bad_ man."

Zsasz stifled a laugh, waved his hands at Jim in an amused sort of way, happily accepting that Oswald was stating the obvious, and disappeared into the couch again.

Oswald clutched Jim's arm. "Dr. Strange does not want me around bad people anymore. If he finds out I'm here with Victor, he'll be so unhappy with me, you have no idea what..."

"Oswald." Jim put his hands on his shoulders. "It doesn't matter what Dr. Strange thinks. Not anymore."

"But when I go back, he'll..."

"You're not going back, if I can help it."

Oswald gasped and backed away. "Oh no. No, no, no, don't say that. Dr. Strange is helping me get better, he's teaching me to be a good person. Don't you want me to be good?"

Jim rubbed his mouth, frustrated and uncertain all over again. Was he doing Oswald any favors, really? Was he just too pigheaded and shortsighted to understand what Strange was doing?

Oswald shivered, hugging himself, lip quivering.

Jim steeled his resolve. People didn't vomit just at the thought of a legitimate mental healthcare treatment. Something very wrong had been done to Oswald, something to do with this crap machine, whatever it was, and Jim wasn't going to let it continue.

Reaching out, he took both of Oswald's hands in his own.

"Oswald, Dr. Strange wasn't helping you," he said, watching Oswald closely for signs of negative reactions. Badmouthing Strange might make him more upset and defensive. "I don't believe you can torture anybody into being good. I promise I'll do everything in my power to keep you out of Arkham."

He rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Oswald's hands, feeling them tremble. "You're going to be all right. I just need you to trust me a little longer."

He hoped like hell it would prove true, that he would be able to keep these promises and fulfill Oswald's trust in him.

Jim encouraged him to sit in one of the armchairs and watch TV since there wasn't much else to do, and Jim was too exhausted to think up other things to occupy Oswald's time. It was better than Oswald sitting in his room worrying about whether Dr. Strange wanted him to turn on the lights or not.

Zsasz found a nature documentary that seemed to allow Oswald to relax, or at least to look less like he was about to burst into tears.

Jim could barely keep his eyes open any longer, and he fell asleep in his armchair.

Then he awoke with a start.

The living room was dark except for the light from the screen.

The weight against his leg turned out to be Oswald, warm and relaxed and fast asleep, sitting on the floor with his legs curled up, resting his head on the side of Jim's thigh.

Jim felt too comfortable to move, although a sluggish thought went through his mind that it would be nice if Oswald were squeezed into the chair next to him.

The murmur of the TV was the only sound in the room besides Oswald's gentle breathing, and the lateness of the hour combined with a cozy lethargy dulled the boundaries he'd firmly set in place for himself.

Oswald had come to him.

He tentatively placed his fingers on Oswald's hair, then glanced at his face. The man remained peaceful, his lashes lying still against his pale cheeks.

Suddenly feeling guilty, he looked over at the couch, but it was empty. Had Zsasz gone out? The door to the other bedroom was closed, maybe Zsasz went to bed.

The light of the TV flickered over Oswald's striped uniform. Jim had forgotten to bring the extra clothes. They were in bags in his apartment, store tags still on them, but he wondered if Oswald would agree to changing out of the Arkham suit. That might be a battle for another day.

He smoothed down the hair on top of his head. Poor Oswald could really use a shower. They'd add that to the schedule.

As his fingertips continued their course down the side of Oswald's head, fingernails lightly stroking, Jim thought about what hair products Oswald used. Or used to use.

He could get some for him. Would Oswald like that? He'd always taken such care with his looks. Smelled so good, too. Jim wondered what cologne Oswald liked. Maybe if Jim got his usual personal hygiene items it could help with...

Oswald jerked awake, blinking at him owlishly, and Jim snatched his hand away, his fuzzy boundaries coming into sharp focus once again, like a clap of thunder from above.

He coughed. "Time for bed," he said, forcing a smile.

"Is this a dream?" Oswald mumbled, rubbing his eyes as Jim got up.

"Naw. Come on," Jim said, holding out his hand to help him to his feet. Oswald rose stiffly, straightening his bad leg with a grimace.

It was automatic at this point, holding Oswald's hand, but as he led him across the room, he got a sinking feeling that he was replacing Dr. Strange as the one telling Oswald what to do.

He didn't want that. And he really should quit holding Oswald's hand, the man already demonstrated that he could walk across a room without assistance, for crying out loud. Was it condescending? Maybe Jim was being condescending.

Except, Oswald seemed to like it. Who was he to deny Oswald this small thing that brought some comfort?

And fine, Jim liked it, too. So they could both use some comfort.

He told Oswald good night and turned to leave, but Oswald stopped him short.

"Stay with me?" he whispered.

Jim froze. They stood there, staring at each other, Oswald so open and soft, and so sad that Jim wanted to make him happy, and close enough that Jim could feel the heat of his body.

Jim's face heated. Whoa. He better not.

He took a step back. "Can't."

And immediately felt like the world's biggest jerk when Oswald's face all but crumpled, dejection in every line of his body, and Jim found he was moving before he thought it through, went to put an arm around him.

Only one arm. At least he had that much self control.

"I'll be back tomorrow, all right?" he said, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Okay, maybe not as much control as he should have.

Oswald struggled to compose himself. "What if you don't?"

Jim sighed. He didn't have a change of clothes here and didn't particularly relish going to work in the same suit as the day before.

Oh well. At least it would support any rumors he had a new love interest.

 _Not far off the mark, now, is it?_ came the snide thought, which must have come from some morally grey corner of his mind. He squelched it.

"How about I sleep on the couch?" he asked. "Right out there. Okay?"

Oswald hiccupped and nodded, leaning into him.

One more little sideways hug, and Jim got out of there before he overstepped even worse than he already had.

He left the light on for him and the door ajar, then set the alarm on his phone and tried to get comfortable on the too-soft couch with his suit jacket as a blanket.

The feel of Oswald's soft cheek on his lips, brief as it was, left its impression on him, however, and it took a long time for him to fall asleep again.

The next morning he found Oswald curled up on the floor next to the couch, fast asleep.


	4. Bad Medicine

Jim rubbed his mouth as he regarded Oswald curled up on the floor. The man didn't even have a blanket or pillow with him, but had laid right down on the carpet.

The hum of a microwave and voices from the kitchen area made Jim look over his shoulder.

Tiff giggled as Lovey pressed a kiss to her neck before they drew apart to gather up plates and cups to sit at the table.

Jim looked down at Oswald again. Well, he shouldn't be sleeping on the floor, that wasn't right. Couldn't be good for his leg, either.

The smell of coffee was just enough to overcome Jim's awkwardness about intruding on a private moment. He didn't know what the personal relationship between the three assasssins were and he didn't particularly care to intrude, but they were going to be in close proximity for some time, so he was probably going to find out whether he wanted to or not.

Jim sat up and carefully stepped over Oswald, who continued to slumber.

The floor plan of the basement was open, the living room blending into the kitchen. As Jim approached the life-giving coffee machine, he passed through a cloud of scents as he went by the table, of stale cigarette smoke and hard liquor. Tiff and Lovey had been out partying.

Lovey had her head propped on one hand with her eyes closed, a breakfast sandwich untouched on her plate, a cigarette smoldering unheeded in her other hand resting on the table. Tiff, who apparently had a stronger stomach, was wolfing down a burrito.

"Ladies," he said by way of greeting. He opened random cupboards, finding a mug on the second try. "Victor around?"

"Went home," Tiff said indistinctly around a mouthful.

Hard to think of Victor Zsasz as having a home, but supposedly he had to live somewhere.

Jim took a fortifying sip of coffee, then tackled the first issue. "I don't want you smoking in here."

Lovey opened her eyes a crack. "Pay our fee and I'll think about it."

"Oh, yeah, the grocery bill," Tiff chimed in. "Came to three hundred forty."

Jim was taken aback. "For _groceries?_ What'd you get, caviar?"

"Had to stock up. Includes drinks."

"I'm not paying for you to get drunk!"

Tiff tsk-ed. "We won't get drunk on duty, officer. Just for, you know, on occasion, a little aperitif."

"No. Absolutely not. No booze. We need to talk about a budget."

Lovey uttered a curse under her breath. "Shut. Up. My head. Tiff, be a dear and shut him up."

Tiff patted her forearm. "Can't do it, sweetie, he's the money."

Jim's cell, lying under one of the couch cushions, burst out with a sprightly tune.

Oswald flinched and sat up, propping his arm on the couch.

Jim shot a final scowl at the assassins over his shoulder as he hurried over to the jingling cell phone, digging it out from under the cushion. Snatching it up, he swiped his finger across it to turn off the alarm.

Oswald was seating himself stiffly on the couch, rubbing his thigh. After he assured Jim he'd slept very well, thank you for asking, Jim wanted to tell him he really shouldn't be sleeping on the bare floor, but wasn't sure how to bring it up without sounding like he was scolding.

For Oswald to come out of his room all on his own must have taken a good deal of courage, given his current frame of mind. Besides which it had been an actual decision on Oswald's part, a trend that Jim would like to see continue.

Hair stuck up all over Oswald's head, adding to the man's expression of bewilderment. Quiet, tense, his gaze kept skittering towards the door that led upstairs and to the world outside.

Jim checked the time. "I'm going to work now. Need to get ready," he announced, rather unnecessarily, probably, but he felt he ought to say something. There was just enough time to freshen up and drive across town to the station.

Oswald's bleak eyes flickered to Jim face without comprehension, then returned to the vigilant watch on the door.

Jim hesitated. If Oswald were as afraid of the assassins as Zsasz claimed, then it was cruel to leave him here alone in their care all day. Oswald might feel easier if Jim hung about for a while, to show him there wasn't anything to worry about. Only the presence of the assassins didn't appear to be what had Oswald so worried.

Jim scratched the back of his neck. "Um, look, how about I stick around a little longer?" Maybe even take the whole day, he was due for some time off.

"No, you won't," Lovey announced. Chin still propped in her hand, she glowered through a haze of smoke. "You're gonna go to work like a good little cop. Act normal. Stick with your usual routine."

Jim ground his teeth. The assassins had already warned him about this, and they were right, damn them. Deviation from his routine was an alert to any semi-competent investigator, or to Oswald's criminal rivals for that matter, and Jim was well-known to work late, work hard, and never took time off unless trapped in a hospital bed.

The fact that he fully planned on coming to the safe house every day was going to be enough of a problem should anyone decide to follow him.

The way Oswald was shutting down worried him. Yesterday he was jittery, on edge, smiling nervously every time someone looked at him. Today he was preternaturally quiet and still.

Oswald stared at the exit, dread in every line of his body, and when Jim said his name he turned his head slowly, as if reluctant to take his eyes off it even for a minute.

Jim assured him that he was safe here, nothing to worry about, and he would return again that evening. Oswald nodded, then returned to his vigilant watch.

Jim tentatively reached across the couch, offering his hand, but Oswald's own hands remained firmly shoved under his armpits. Oswald licked his lips and some emotion flickered across his face, too quick for Jim to catch, and Oswald leaned toward him slightly, then he seemed to catch himself and he drew back, looking away.

A hot flush went through him, remembering how he'd kissed Oswald on the cheek last night. God, he shouldn't have done that. Definitely crossed a line there. He drew his hand back.

"See you later tonight. Okay?" He forced a smile on his face, and left.

"Get us our money," Lovey called after him, voice sharp. "And wipe that guilty look off your face, geez."

* * *

Jim's ruminations about the nutcase who was going around freezing people came to a halt at the sight of Oswald hobbling around the perimeter of the apartment.

Zsasz appeared to have the night off. Tiff buried her nose in a stack of magazines while Lovey commandeered the remote. "He's been like this all day," Lovey said in an uninterested voice, when Jim handed her the rest of the money for their retaining fee. "That and hiding in the corner."

Oswald, who had flinched and gasped when Jim opened the door, hobbled quickly over to Jim. Reaching out, he patted at Jim's arms and shoulders, plucking at his shirt, as if needing physical confirmation of Jim's existence.

Jim's resolve to keep a safe, objective distance flew out the window. "Hey, Oswald," Jim said quietly, laying his hands on Oswald's upper arms. "What's up?"

Oswald's face was clammy and his worried eyes roamed over Jim as if drinking in every detail. "You are real. Of course. The cushions. I knew I couldn't be wrong."

"Cushions," Jim repeated.

"Yes. The cushions this morning. Where you sat. They were warm." Oswald's lips twitched into a nervous grin. "Hallucinations don't leave heat signatures."

Jim gave Oswald's arms a reassuring squeeze. "Yeah. I think you hit on something there. Here I thought I was the detective."

His light-hearted comment worked for a second. Oswald blinked and his mouth twitched into a shy smile before anxiety took hold again and the corners of his mouth turned down. "When are they coming?" he whispered.

Lovey let out a weary sigh from her sprawled position on the couch. "Already told you, boss. No one's coming for you," she said in the bored tones of one who has been repeating the same thing all day.

Oswald leaned close to him, face pinched with worry. "If you would be so good as to let me know, Jim, I would appreciate it, if you could tell me, when are the orderlies due to arrive? To bring me to the trea...treat..." He swallowed thickly.

Treatment? That must be what Oswald feared. If he wasn't going back to Arkham, well, then, they must be coming to get him.

"You need to sit down," Jim said firmly, and steered Oswald into the kitchen, guiding him into one of the chairs.

He took the precaution of seizing the wastebasket from under the sink, just in case Oswald got sick abruptly, and returned to him, crouching in front of him and laying a soothing hand on his arm, putting as much reassurance into his touch as he could.

"No one is coming for you, Oswald. I swear. There's no... no you-know-what today." He wasn't going to name that machine. It was safest to stick to the euphemism Oswald had chosen.

Oswald had already eaten, according to the assassins, so Jim heated some canned soup and wolfed it down with crackers.

Oswald was up and pacing again before he finished.

With some desperation, Jim turned to a shelf of dusty volumes of Reader's Digest Condensed books in one corner of the basement, to find something that would distract Oswald.

Jim wasn't a big reader although he used to read a lot of Zane Grey when he was younger, back when he had time for reading. Perusing the gold lettering on the spines of the books, he didn't see anything that resembled a western, but to set a good example, he took a volume with _Tom Sawyer_ for himself, chose _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ for Oswald because it looked historical, (when Oswald was in a calmer frame of mind Jim planned on finding out what the man preferred for reading material, if he could coax an opinion out of him), brushed off the cobwebs, and returned to the table, Oswald in tow.

Oswald attempted to sit down and read, but he couldn't concentrate for more than a minute or two before his gaze began skittering toward the door, clearly dreading the arrival of the orderlies, and soon he was up and pacing again, hobbling around the basement, his leg clearly paining him but seemingly unable to stop, rubbing one hand over the other.

Jim alternated between letting him pace and suggesting Oswald rest, or change out of the ugly striped Arkham uniform, to try to read some more, to watch TV. Oswald did as suggested, except for changing out of the uniform. But still he was unable to sit still for long, and soon he would be up and roaming again.

About an hour into this activity, Oswald stumbled, pain contorting him, causing him to bend double to grasp his leg.

Jim urged him to sit, then crouched on one knee in front of him. "Can I help? Let me help."

"It's ugly," Oswald moaned, straightening his leg and bending over to rub his calf.

"Muscle spasms, right?" Jim gently pushed up his pant leg. "Your ankle? Or is it the knee?"

He pressed his fingers over Oswald's calf, putting them where he'd seen Oswald touch, up and down, close to the discolored, swollen ankle but careful not to touch the joint, feeling the tendon twitch and the tightness of the muscle.

Oswald grew quiet as Jim massaged him, running his hands down to the thin area of the tendons near the ankle and back up to the bulk of the calf. Up and down. Minutes passed, and gradually Jim felt some of the tension leaving, the twitches dying down.

Jim moved up to massage along Oswald's the top of his thigh, because Oswald had started rubbing that, too. Jim kneaded with firm strokes until a little sigh of relief puffed out of Oswald.

Jim glanced up at him. "Better? I'll get you a Tylenol." He'd bought it earlier in the day, and went to fetch it from his coat pocket.

Oswald had worn himself out at last. Jim steered him over to the couch, unceremoniously ousting Lovey from her position. Grumbling, she shot him a dirty look, but out of deference to the boss, no doubt, got up and flopped into an easy chair.

Jim sat down, and Oswald pressed against him, shivering. It was the most natural thing in the world to wrap an arm around his shoulders and rest his chin on top of his head, murmuring soothing words into his hair. The shopping network was on, which Jim normally found unbelievably boring, but he was so relieved Oswald had finally stopped his frenzied activity that he didn't care.

Oswald gradually went limp against him and Jim craned his neck down to see that the man had fallen asleep.

Jim had not planned on spending the night again. He badly needed a shower, had no toothbrush or his own shaving stuff, and he absolutely could not show up at work unshaven and wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row. Barnes would have words.

Zsasz had left his own shaving things in the bathroom, a huge straight-edged razor that Jim wouldn't have touched for a hundred bucks. He didn't have his own towel, either.

Jim rested his cheek on Oswald's dishevelled head, and changed his mind, instead making plans to get up earlier to return to his apartment to shower and change.

* * *

Naturally, he slept on the couch again. After the stress of Oswald's frenetic pacing he completely forgot about how Oswald had come to sleep on the floor next to him and when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom he tripped over him in the dark.

This would not do, Oswald sleeping on the floor like a dog, and it couldn't be good for his leg, either.

His brain fuzzy with exhaustion, he knew there was only one way to deal with this. He brought Oswald back to his bed and lay beside him. As tired as he was, he didn't need to worry overmuch about embarrassing physical displays.

It was quite cozy, actually, with Oswald curled up warm against his back. Jim couldn't help but feel some satisfaction that Oswald felt safe with him, a certain pride that Oswald consistently sought him out for comfort.

He couldn't be objective, or pretend he wasn't already emotionally involved beyond friendship. Getting him out of the asylum went far beyond repaying a debt. Oswald's vulnerability, stripped of the keen intelligence and wit that was the man's usual armor, pulled at something deep within Jim. It made him want to protect him more than ever, to be worthy of Oswald's trust.

He found he was hoping for something more.

Nonetheless, he knew very well Oswald wasn't in his right mind and Jim was not going to take advantage. He'd slipped up once, but that little peck on the cheek the other night, that wouldn't happen again.

There would be time to figure out what they truly were to one another once Oswald was better.

As he drifted off, a more disquieting thought emerged. _If he ever gets better._

* * *

The next night brought more of the same, Oswald stuck in a pattern of pacing and unable to relax, practically jumping out of his skin when Jim came in the door, then going to him to pat at him as evidence that Jim was real, Jim was there.

Jim's attempts to distract him with food, with the crossword books and sudoku he'd picked up at a pharmacy, had limited success. He had no idea what hobbies or pasttimes Oswald liked, though he distinctly recalled Oswald smugly declaring once how much he enjoyed gathering knowledge and information.

Jim felt a little sheepish about bringing him these silly activity books, certain that Oswald wouldn't normally bother with this sort of trivia. What else might interest him? Model planes? Painting?

Oswald just politely accepted whatever Jim gave him, even the crossword book labelled "For ages 8-13," which Jim had actually bought by accident, then decided to give to Oswald anyway to see if there'd be a sarcastic response.

He imagined the haughty lift of Oswald's chin, the genteel curl of his lip. _Really, James, you think this childish busy-work will interest me? Please, spare me._

But Jim watched in vain for signs of annoyance or incredulity, seeing only an anxious desire to be pleasant and accomodating in Oswald's demeanor, as if the man's other emotions had been flattened out. Or extinguished.

The assassins shrugged off Jim's concerns. He'll be fine, they said. Probably just needs to let his brain reset or something, they said.

Their nonchalance drove him up the wall. Half the time it sounded like Zsasz just made up shit to placate Jim, and he considered firing the lot of them.

But that would mean leaving the safe house and he shrank from the prospect of Oswald stuck alone in his apartment all day, nervously pacing, forgetting to eat, maybe even getting it into his head to go back to the asylum.

The saving grace was how when Oswald wore himself out and his abused leg couldn't take any more, he would come to wherever Jim was, prompting Jim to lead him to the couch so they could sit down together.

Even if it meant getting indignant assassins to move over, which they did, grumbling about the 'lovebirds' taking over. Which wasn't too surprising. They could hardly miss how Oswald fastened onto Jim like a barnacle, or how Jim welcomed the chance to hold Oswald and help calm him.

They also were aware that Jim was now sharing Oswald's bed, and appeared to take it for granted that he and Oswald were...involved.

* * *

After three gruelling nights, it seemed to Jim that Oswald was finally starting to become quieter. Calmer. The pacing session was markedly shorter.

As Jim wrapped an arm around him to draw him in, he felt that Oswald was leaning against him rather more easily, resting on his shoulder rather than cowering. And he wasn't shivering. Nor had he asked when the orderlies were coming to get him. Not once.

It was a small change, but it was there, though Jim hardly dared hope it was a sign of improvement. That might be premature.

The next night he arrived at the safe house very late. It was simply a given by this point that he was living there. It took up too much time driving back to his place every morning, and he went to his apartment a couple of times a week to get fresh clothes and his mail.

He was wrung out by the bizarre and exhausting day, made worse by the fight with Lee over using Nora Fries as bait at Arkham. The entire time he'd been not only stressed about setting the trap and wondering if he was losing his grip, using the woman to lure her husband, but he was consumed by a low-level dread that Harvey would find out Oswald was no longer in residence.

Which would provoke questions, and someone would start to investigate at last. Jim was beginning to feel too frazzled to put up a charade of ignorance about Oswald's whereabouts.

And yet, still no one at Arkham said a peep to the GCPD about the Penguin's escape.

Not to mention Jim wasn't supposed to set foot anywhere on the Arkham grounds.

Captain Barnes had met with Professor Strange to lock down the facility and set up the perimeter, then basically sneaked Jim in to take over the operation once Strange retreated to his office. Barnes's zeal to catch scumbags led him to overlook the little inconvenience of the restraining order against Jim.

What Professor Strange would do if he found out Jim had violated it, he didn't like to think about.

Then there was the subsequent fallout from the whole disaster in the Fries's basement. Lee had been right. He'd been reckless, careless, goading Fries to take excessive action.

And now both Nora and Victor Fries were dead, circumstances spiralling out of Jim's control despite his best efforts. Harvey insisting over and over again that it wasn't Jim's fault hadn't helped any, not in the face of Lee's silent condemnation.

The debriefing, the paperwork that always needed to be filled out no matter what anyone's feelings were, staving off Harvey's attempts to drag him to a bar, and finally, he managed to leave.

He'd texted Zsasz to warn him he would be working late, and to strongly suggest that the asssassin show a little consideration for his boss and put some effort into coaxing Oswald to do something other than pace himself to the point of collapse.

Victor was watching TV when Jim came in, and all Jim could get out of him was disinterested responses to his questions about how Oswald had spent the evening. Was told curtly that the boss had gone to bed.

He checked on Oswald, who was indeed conked out, flat on his back, the blanket rising and falling gently with his breathing.

Jim straightened a few strands of unruly black hair across his forehead, a little saddened that he didn't get a chance to spend some more time with Oswald. He'd needed to get to work earlier than usual this morning and there'd barely been time to say good-bye. He would have liked to see if there'd been more improvement since yesterday, if Oswald had regained more composure.

Probably for the best. Oswald could use more sleep.

Needing to unwind, Jim wandered back out to the kitchen. The assassins' insistence on being well-stocked with alcholic beverages seemed like the best idea ever now, as he took a beer from the fridge.

Victor glanced at him from his position on the couch. "You made the news, Jimbo. Glad you didn't freeze up."

If Jim hadn't been so tired he would have decked him. "Shut up."

"Temper, temper."

Jim fell into one of the easy chairs, letting the bitter taste of the beer wash through him. He wasn't in the mood for anything stronger, though it would take more than a few beers to get a buzz going. It was more to help him get to sleep than anything else.

Weird how he was beginning to get used to this double existence. Cop by day, gangster-caretaker by night. Barely a week into it, and he was hanging out with hired killers without so much as a twinge of guilt. At least here he didn't have to hide what he was doing or feeling. It was a strange kind of honesty, but there it was.

"So he wore himself out?" he asked, trying not to sound too accusatory, though he suspected Victor probably hadn't tried very hard to keep Oswald occupied. Jim didn't have the energy to call him out on laziness.

Victor shrugged. "Gave him a little something to help him relax."

Jim paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"It's from a reliable source. Put him right to sleep."

"A reliable..." Jim sputtered. "What did you give him?"

Victor sighed, clearly feeling put upon. "I just _told_ you. Something to help him relax."

Jim pushed to his feet and strode to the bedroom.

Oswald's steady breathing didn't change when Jim shook him, increasingly rough, and Jim charged out to the living room again.

"What was it?" he snapped, dread spiking and making his chest constrict. "A shot? Pills? What?"

Rolling his eyes, Victor got up and crossed the room, returning with a small ziploc bag half full of white oval pills which he tossed at Jim.

"No label, no names or numbers on them." Jim glared at Victor. "You still haven't told me what they are."

Victor wrinkled his nose. "I dunno, the doc makes them. Said they were kind of like Xanax, I think? Relax, Jimbo, this doc's good. Been around a long time. Looks like you could use one," he said, holding up the bag. "Why don't you..."

"Call him and find out what it is," Jim snapped.

Victor pulled out his cell while Jim fumed. "Voicemail," he said after a few moments.

"But you know where he is?" Jim demanded.

"Yeah, I guess, but..."

Jim grabbed him by the shirt. "Get him over here! Right now!"

After Victor stomped into his boots and grumbled his way out, Jim dragged his hands through his hair, fighting panic.

Stupid, idiot, Jim was such a fucking moron, leaving Oswald in the hands of these cretins, God knew what poison Victor fed him.

He should do something, get him some water, get a little down his throat, maybe that would help. Jim's hands shook so badly he sloshed half the water out on the floor before he got back.

He got one arm under Oswald's shoulders and hauled him into a sitting position. Oswald's head lolled as he was raised up.

As he held the glass to his lips, Oswald grunted and looked up. "Wha?" he mumbled, squinting against the overhead light. "Jim, whatever is the matter?"


	5. Baby Steps

Keeping one arm around Oswald's shoulders, Jim flailed around with the glass before shoving it onto the side table too quickly so it promptly tipped over.

Taking hold of Oswald's chin, he tilted his face up to inspect him, though he wasn't even sure what he was looking for. In the usual course of things, if he suspected a person had overdosed, his main action would be to call an ambulance and leave it to the medics.

Oswald's blue eyes appeared clear and took only a moment or two to focus on Jim, as might be expected from someone who'd been rudely awakened from a deep sleep. "What's wrong?" Oswald asked.

Jim hadn't taken a full breath in the past several minutes and he sucked in air with a gasp. Still seated on the edge of the mattress, he turned away, burying his face in his hands as he leaned on his elbows, struggling to compose himself.

Tentative fingers touched his forearm. "Don't be sad."

Jim turned his head to regard Oswald and the polite bewilderment on his face that currently passed for Oz's new normal. Oswald reached out and touched the back of his finger to the corner of Jim's eye, and the wetness there. "Why are you crying?"

Jim huffed out a breath and swiped at his eyes, wanting to deny it despite evidence to the contrary, wanting to stand up to show he was okay, but his legs were too watery. The aftermath of too much adrenaline after a day full of adrenaline rushes was taking its toll.

Exhaustion. That was the only explanation for the next words out of his mouth. Too drained, too wrecked to put on a brave face right away. "I guess I got scared."

Oswald made a little hum. "Didn't think you got scared. How come?"

"Because...I..." Jim wiped a hand down his mouth. Scared I might have gotten you killed. Probably shouldn't start off with that. He needed to be careful, here, he couldn't burden Oswald with his own worries.

"Victor is an idiot," he finally said, indulging briefly in the self-righteous satisfaction of getting to blame someone else for once, until he remembered that he was the one who was ostensibly in charge of this operation.

Oswald yawned and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "Well, yes, that's true," he murmured. "Tiff and Lovey aren't much better. Clever in their own way, good at their jobs, but not very bright, you understand."

That was the most insightful thing Oswald had said in a long time. Jim ducked his head a little to get a better look at Oswald's face, but the man's eyes were beginning to droop.

"They'll never admit it, but they need a boss," Oswald mumbled. "Just gotta..." He yawned hugely and rested his head on Jim's shoulder. "Let 'em know who's in charge."

"Oh, hey, how about we walk around a little?" Jim felt he ought to get him on his feet, and so, putting an arm around Oswald's waist, he got him up and walking.

"Got any other management advice?" he asked as he led Oswald out of the bedroom.

"A rather broad subject," Oswald said, quirking an eyebrow at him, so much like his old self that it made a smile tug at the corners of Jim's mouth.

"Well, understanding an employee's motivations are a factor. Hired muscle, their motivations tend to be fairly straightforward," Oswald said, slowly but legibly. "Financial gain."

Jim glanced at his sleepy face. That was pretty coherent, maybe there was an upside to the drug.

"And then we bring out the bunnies," Oswald murmured, a sleepy grin passing over his features.

Jim pressed his lips together. Maybe not.

Oswald's eyes slipped shut and his head nodded.

Jim cleared his throat and incidentally gave Oswald's shoulder a little hitch as they shuffled across the floor. "So what motivates Victor and the girls?"

Oswald jerked upright, blinking. "Oh, them. They like killing people. And to get paid for it. Remember to keep them away from hedgehogs. And bottle caps."

Oswald's head rolled to the side. "Lovely wallpaper," he murmured. "A hearty breed. So colorful."

Jim glanced around at the plain white drywall, and hitched Oswald up again as his feet stumbled. I'm going to kill Zsasz. Jim cast around, slightly frantic, for another topic, any topic. "You like movies, Oz? What kind of movies you like?"

Oswald hummed a little sigh. "The Inspector General."

Oh, great. More delirium. Jim tried to think of what movies that he himself liked, but his mind was very unhelpfully drawing a complete blank.

"Danny Kaye," Oswald said. "So funny."

Oh. He recognized that name, he'd heard it somewhere before. An actor from way back. "I guess I never heard of that film. What's it about?"

Oswald giggled. "About an Inspector General, silly. Case of mistaken identity, cons galore, corrupt government officials getting what's coming to them, et cetera, what have you, ad infinitum."

He waved his hand in a little circle. "E pluribus unum," he added, and giggled again before fixing Jim with a saucy look. "Lovable con-artist rogue as the lead," he said, tweaking Jim's collar. "Something you might be interested in, detective?"

Hoo boy. Not gonna go there. Jim politely removed Oswald's stroking fingers and changed the subject.

And so he kept walking them around, encouraging Oswald to talk, which consisted of insights about the finer points of running a pack of vicious criminals, interspersed with random loopier comments.

"The intangibles," Oswald said. "Considerably trickier to navigate. Loyalty to one's gang, the influence of family life, the old 'I ain't workin' with him, he shot my brother' scenarios. Money smooths over a great many sins, of course. And ice cream."

Jim snorted. "Ice cream. Sure about that, Oz?"

Oswald nodded decisively. "And leap frog."

The image of Zsasz and other hard-faced goons grimly leap-frogging over each other surfaced in his mind's eye and a brief snort of laughter broke out of him before he could stifle it.

"Sorry," he murmured.

Oswald tsked. "But you have such a nice laugh. I hardly ever hear it." Oswald tilted his head toward Jim with a dreamy smile and laid his hand on Jim's chest. "You called me Oz. Twice."

Jim felt a pool of heat spread from Oswald's hand and travel inexorably across his torso. "Sorry. I guess it kind of..."

"I like it," Oswald sighed, snuggling way too close into Jim's shoulder as they walked. "You're apologizing too much."

Unexpectedly, Oswald stepped in front of him so they were chest to chest, effectively bringing them to a halt.

Oswald's hand snaked up the back of his neck and into his hair.

"Oh, that's nice," Oswald breathed, as his fingers sifted through the short strands. "Always wanted to do that."

And it was nice. Very nice. Jim's scalp tingled and his heart pounded so he was sure Oswald could feel it. Oswald's face was so close, and Jim ought to have been forwarned by the way Oswald's face changed from dreamy wistfulness to open yearning, his eyes brightening with intent.

When Oswald tugged his head down, Jim went willingly enough, though he knew he shouldn't, to press their lips together. Oswald's eyes fluttered shut and Jim leaned in a little closer to deepen the kiss, just for a moment, parting his lips a little as he moved his mouth over Oswald's, tasting him for just a couple of selfish, indulgent moments.

Oswald stood very still in his arms, even stiffly, before following his lead, opening his own mouth to Jim's intrusion, almost clumsily. Because he was drugged up?

Or had Oswald never...

Jim pulled back. Oswald blinked at him, his body flush against Jim's, looking mildly stunned, and Jim was more certain than ever it must have been the man's first kiss.

"Um, we need to..." Jim said hoarsely.

What the hell were they supposed to be doing? Oh yeah.

Taking hold of Oswald's elbows, he gently pivoted him to face forward again and determinedly set them on course. "Need to walk," he said firmly, as much to himself as to Oswald.

Oswald tsked. "You're no fun," he said petulantly.

There were footsteps from outside, and Jim was relieved that he'd ended the inappropriate embrace as soon as Zsasz slammed back into the apartment again, with a dishevelled man in a trench coat trailing in his wake. Both man and coat had seen better days.

The man, presumably the doctor, staggered sideways into the kitchen before making his way over to where Jim let Oswald slip down into one of the easy chairs.

Oswald rolled his head against the back of the chair to beam at the guest. "Dr. Bob! How are you?"

Jim wiped his hand over his mouth as another problem belatedly occurred to him. No one was supposed to know Oswald was here, and Jim had just brought a witness into the safe house, a complete stranger he knew nothing about.

His eyes accidentally met Victor's and the assassin returned the look with a cold disdain that showed he knew exactly what Jim was thinking, and was irritated it'd taken Jim so long to figure it out. Nonetheless, Victor raised an eyebrow as if to ask what should be done about it. If he wanted Victor to rectify the mistake.

A chill ran down his spine. Zsasz would murder the doctor on the spot if Jim wanted, if he felt it necessary to maintain absolute secrecy.

And Victor wouldn't mind in the slightest. Was looking forward to it, maybe.

 _They like to kill people,_ Oz had said. _And get paid for it._

Jim scowled, shaking his head and mouthing the word 'no.' He'd been in war and walked the mean streets of Gotham, run across hardened murderers whose sole purpose was to kill, but this was the first time he'd ever been in charge of one.

The silent exchange had taken only a seconds. Meanwhile, Dr. Bob stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open slightly as he stared at Oswald. Then he darted a look at the glaring Victor Zsasz, and his expression quickly became shuttered.

Dr. Bob wisely declined to comment. He shuffled over to sit on a corner of the couch at a right angle to Oswald's chair, but gingerly, as if too sudden a movement would topple him.

The man was clearly high on something, and Jim clenched his fists.

But he did nothing, said nothing, as the man prodded at Oswald's arm and clumsily found his pulse, shone a penlight in his eyes, patted at his face.

No choice. It was either let Oz be examined by this quack or get him to an emergency room.

"You feel itchy?" the doctor said, slurring his words worse than Oz. "Any rash?"

Oswald answered in the negative and the doctor leaned his hands on his knees, giving Jim and Victor a reproachful look for wasting his time. "Can I go now?"

"Are you sure he's all right?" Jim demanded. _Hardly says three sentences and he thinks he's done_. "Earlier he was talking about colors that weren't there."

"Just a little extra benefit. Mild hallucinogen. Very soothing. It's not at all detrimental."

 _Benefit my ass._ "How mild?"

"It'll wear off by morning. None of my other customers ever complained."

"That's not good enough," Jim grated through his teeth, stepping closer and putting his hands on his hips.

The doctor sighed in annoyance at Jim's refusal to be mollified. "His pulse is slow but regular, perfectly in range for this medication. Skin's not clammy. He's not gasping for breath. Not having any kind of allergic reaction."

"He wouldn't wake up."

"Of course it was difficult to wake him," Dr. Bob said irritably. "That's what it's for."

Oswald reached out and stroked Jim's arm, sliding his hand down to his wrist and seizing Jim's hand. "Dr. Bob, this is my dear old friend, Jim," Oswald announced. "Isn't he handsome?"

The doctor cleared his throat and fidgeted while Jim ducked his head and gave Oswald a little nod, ignoring Victor's smirk, both embarrassed and ridiculously pleased by the praise.

He squeezed Oswald's hand before disengaging himself and turning his attention to Dr. Bob.

"What's in it?" Jim was getting fed up with vague answers.

"I'm not giving away my trade secrets," the doctor sniffed primly. "If you understood how difficult it..."

In one swift motion, Victor drew his gun, cocked it, and set the tip of the barrel against the doctor's temple. "He asked you a question."

"What the hell!" Jim snapped. "Put that away."

Victor tsked and put the gun up, though not away.

The doctor was rigid in his chair. "My goodness," he said feebly, adjusting his glasses. "It's only alprazolam. Some sodium benzoate, corn syrup."

He named off some more items that Jim wasn't familiar with in the slightest, then turned to Victor. "I've been useful to you, haven't I?" he said in a wheedling voice. "No need to draw on me. I take them myself. If you're truly that worried, my technicians are waiting in the truck with the stomach pump. Shall I call them in?"

"You have a portable stomach pump?"

"Yeah, and it's gonna cost you," Victor said sullenly, holstering the revolver.

Jim knew about a number of underground industries in Gotham, the cleaners, those intrepid freelancers who could make inconvenient corpses disappear for a price, the warehouse where weapons of every make and size could be purchased, and thought he'd seen it all. But the black-market medical practice was new, uncharted territory for him.

Jim's heart sank. The cost of this little visit was another thing that hadn't occurred to him until now.

Writing down the ingredient names so he could look them up for himself, he declined the stomach pump. Since he didn't have nearly enough cash on hand to pay the doctor and the unseen technicians with their waiting stomach pump on the spot, Victor did so, peeling off several bills from a huge roll he pulled out of his jacket, with more eye rolling and tsks.

After the doctor plodded out, Victor made it clear in snippy terms that he expected to get reimbursed not only for having to pay off the doctor, but for being sent on the useless errand in the first place.

"Those pills weren't cheap, either, Jimbo," Victor said.

Jim advanced on him, rage tightening along his spine. "You know what, Victor? I never asked you to buy them and I'm not paying for any damn drugs cooked up in that quack's basement." In an act of further madness, he jabbed him in the shoulder to emphasize his point.

Victor went cold and still, but Jim was dangerously beyond caring. If he didn't make a stand now, he might as well hand Victor his bank card.

Oswald exhaled a happy sigh, appearing suddenly at Jim's elbow. "Is it hot in here, or is it just you?" Smiling a dreamy little smile, he began to drag his pajama top over his head.

Jim and Victor froze with alarm. Jim recovered first, moving quickly to yank Oswald's shirt back in place. "Whoa, hold on there, Oz. I think it's time for bed. To _sleep,"_ he added.

Oswald mumbled something incoherent, but allowed Jim to lead him into his room, and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Jim composed himself before going out to face Victor again. One more thing he had to do.

Victor smiled brightly. "Oz? That's nice."

At least the tension had broken, Victor now more amused than angry. Jim went over to the coffee table where the baggie still sat.

"Shoulda let him strip," Zsasz said as Jim snatched up the pills and strode into the bathroom. "Got him out of those ugly-ass stripes."

Jim flushed the pills and came out again. He tried to cut Victor down to size with a look but didn't think he succeeded. "No more drugs," he growled.

* * *

Oswald spent the next two days dazed and groggy, and didn't seem to remember the kiss. Jim wasn't about to bring it up.

Soon enough Oswald was back to his pacing routine, but erratically, as if his schedule had gotten messed up and he was having trouble finding his groove, so that some days he paced doggedly as if to make up for lost time, while other days he sat and stared into space. Though he responded to questions and requests readily enough, in monosyllables.

Any hopes that Jim had that the pill might have unexpectedly done a little good, allowing more of Oswald's repressed traits to emerge, were dashed.

He knew it would take time. Logically, he knew this. Trauma wasn't something that could be overcome through willpower or based on a timetable, but he began to face the possibility that, despite the remarkable resilience Oswald demonstrated in the past, this time the man could have reached his limit.

Oswald might take months to recover. Maybe years. Or, more chillingly, he might have suffered permanent damage.

While watching Oswald limp around the room again one night, touching the walls and furniture as if to assure himself that they were real, shying away from Lovey and Tiff, nervously rubbing his hands together, Jim felt a heavy weight settle into his bones.

He needed to make plans, to make sure Oswald was taken care of to the best of Jim's ability.

His rent came due the next day, taking another great walloping chunk out of his account, reminding him in no uncertain terms of the precariousness of his position.

He wished he could find a subleaser, but he needed to keep up the pretense of living at his apartment. The last thing Jim needed was for Harvey to drop by and find total strangers living there.

He found another dry cleaners, another expense, that he could drive by more easily on his way to and from work, because the wash-and-wear suits just weren't cutting it. His clothes had gotten so wrinkled that Harvey started calling him "Columbo" and Barnes, unusually, even stiffly asked Jim if everything was all right at home. So, back with the dry cleaners.

Even Lee drew him into her office one day to ask concerned questions and tactfully remind him there was a psychologist on the GCPD staff for a reason.

Jim started eating out with Harvey again, even went out for drinks a time or two, because the amount of money he saved by brown-bagging it was such a tiny drop in the bucket compared to the money he was shelling out to the assassins and the expenses of the safe house that it hardly made any difference.

It made it easier to keep up the facade that he was perfectly fine with no worries at all, other than the usual strain of being a detective in a city with one of the highest crime rates in the country.

* * *

Jim got Oswald a cane, which he should have done right at the start, the only hiccup being that Harvey ran into him at the pharmacy while he was choosing one.

Jim was testing it, taking a few steps up and down the aisle -he and Oswald were close enough in height so if it worked for Jim it should be all right for Oswald- and he got a glimpse of Harvey over the top of the shelves a split second before the other man saw him, just enough time for Jim to act like he'd found the cane lying on the floor, left there by some careless shopper, and was putting it back in the rack.

Jim grabbed a package of antacid tablets as if that's what he'd really been after, God knew he could use them with the way his stomach had been acting up lately, and got out of there as quickly as he dared, feeling Harvey's eyes on the back of his head.

He lurked around the corner until he saw Harvey leave, and went back in to buy it.

* * *

Oswald walked, then limped, and finally staggered around the basement apartment, terror clawing at him, while memories, thoughts, images, the stark, ghastly visions inflicted on him by the...by the thing he dared not name, the unconnected fragments of thought floating through his brain like so much flotsam.

He knew he'd been in this place for several days, though he had no idea for how long exactly, he _knew_ he had, but every time he walked around the place, the features of the room changed. Or seemed to change.

Had that couch always been there? Those dusty pictures on the wall? And in the kitchen, wasn't there supposed to be another counter on the other side of the oven, or was that the layout of his kitchen in his rooms at the club?

He patted the couch as he passed it. Yes, this was here earlier. It was here yesterday, and it ought to be here tomorrow. Padding over to the kitchen, he ran his hands over the backs of the chairs ranged around the square table.

He wanted to touch the sink and the fridge, but Victor Zsasz was there, leaning against the oven cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade, watching him with disinterest.

He wished Jim was there. Everything seemed more manageable with Jim there. So warm and sturdy.

That is, If Jim really had been there.

Oswald sifted through his scattered memories for the irrefutable evidence of Jim's presence. The coffee cup by the sink that Jim used that morning. A suit on a hanger, still in its dry cleaning bag.

What was the phrase, where you couldn't tell if something was really there or not unless you could see it? Object impermanence? Something like that. Babies had it.

Babies, for God's sake.

Indignation moved within him, sluggish, like a muscle that had atrophied. Professor Strange did this to him. Told him he couldn't trust his own thoughts since Oswald obviously couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong, evil, vicious, rotten little murderer that he was, and Strange would have to do his thinking for him.

The flickering of anger, no more than a tiny flame, was washed away by shame. Strange was helping him, and Oswald was ungrateful, fleeing the asylum, as good as rejecting the professor's guidance.

He didn't mean to leave Arkham, but it happened all the same, the assassins dragged him out...

A cold sweat broke out on his face. Unless he never left. He might still be in Arkham.

He hadn't ruled out the possibility this was all some kind of elaborate test, and he didn't know what terrified him more, being in Arkham or out of it.

Which was fucking insane, it was obvious which was better, protested a small corner of his mind, but it was like a voice behind a locked door, barely audible, weak, and it soon died.

He groped his way to the corner by the bookshelf and curled up into a ball, anxiety consuming him, the orderlies' footsteps echoing in his memories.

For the time being he buried his head in his arms and breathed, just breathed, just...

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, said his name.

His head jerked up.

Oh. Oh, it was Jim.

He blinked back tears. Jim was back, and Oswald basked for a few blissful moments in his presence, drank in Jim's somber features, his quiet concern as he leaned over Oswald.

A brief smile stretched out Jim's lips as he nodded at Oswald encouragingly. Oswald was drawn out despite himself, and Jim held out a hand, an unspoken question in his eyes.

Oswald gradually uncurled and placed his hand in Jim's and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet.

He stretched out his bad knee with a groan. Jim put an arm around his waist to take some of Oswald's weight off the leg and Oswald huffed in relief, leaning gratefully against Jim's solidness.

"Got you something," Jim said, and for the first time Oswald realized Jim was holding a cane in his other hand.

Oswald recoiled, pushing away from him with a gasp. "No, I couldn't possibly. That is completely against regulations. Nothing that could be used as a weapon."

Oswald blushed. How rude, to reject Jim's gift.

Jim, however, was unfazed, and Oswald felt a twinge of gratitude mingled with guilt. Jim was so kind, putting up with such crass behavior.

"No staff here," Jim said. "Just us."

Oswald looked at the cane, looked at Victor, ran his gaze around the apartment again until it came to rest on the closed door.

A few fragments of memory floated by, clicked into place. And, for once, held steady.

"Where is here?" he asked, cautiously.

"The Winslet place, boss," Victor supplied, crossing his arms. "You came here in a van. Remember?"

Yes, he did remember, the rocking, swerving ride in which he'd gotten horribly sick.

He looked at Jim for reassurance, who nodded.

Oswald reached out and Jim handed him the cane. Oswald curled his fingers around it and squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace, neck tightening, shoulders drawing together.

No orderlies rushed in to scream at him to drop it. No alarms.

Oswald exhaled and let the awful tension leave his shoulders. He glanced at Jim, who merely stood there quietly with a hand in his pocket.

Oswald went to the door and opened it, peering out at the darkened, perfectly ordinary carpeted stairs leading up to the house.

He needed to test this, though his heart pounded in his ears.

"There is a walled garden at Winslet house," he declared. He remembered that much. "I wish to see it."

Victor shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

"I'll go with you," Jim said.

It was silly, but he felt so in dread of disappointment, that he clutched at Jim as they passed through the darkened house. Jim, clearly indulging him, kept his hand in a warm grip until they reached the glass double doors covered with heavy curtains.

Jim pushed the curtains side to wrestle one of the doors open, runners protesting.

Oswald stepped onto the fitted stones of the patio with a click of his new cane. It was real. He breathed in the cold night air and Jim put a jacket over his shoulders.

He looked up at the half moon high in the clear night sky, rare for Gotham, a few of the brighter stars twinkling through the light pollution. Oswald walked down the stone-lined path between the riotous rose bushes and stepped onto the overgrown grass to reach one of the high granite walls that surrounded the yard, to run his fingertips along the cool stone. Turning, he saw that Jim still stood on the patio.

"I must apologize, Jim, for doubting you. But I had to see for myself."

Jim shrugged, a little tilt to his head.

"You see, Arkham has many hidden wings, secret corridors," Oswald said, feeling a little more explanation was necessary. "Sometimes I close my eyes, and when I open them again I'm in a completely different room, with no memory of how I got there."

Jim smiled. "No problem, Oz. I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

Oswald looked away, hiding his blush from the moonlight. That gruff voice, using that nickname, speaking to him with something that sounded suspiciously like fondness, it awakened desires he hadn't experienced in months.

While he'd long wanted a partnership with the detective, he'd believed that anything more than that was forever beyond reach, no matter how much he desired it.

Oswald needed to be careful not to confuse Jim's attitude toward him as any kind of romantic leaning. Jim was being kind, nothing more.

Oswald fidgeted with the cane. "Why did you bring me here?"

Jim's face became somber, a number of emotions moving behind the detective's eyes, the subtle tightening and loosening of muscles in Jim's jaw as the man weighed his words, such a familiar sight that Oswald's heart fluttered a bit.

"I couldn't leave you in that place," Jim said. "Couldn't let you take the rap."

Such an enormous risk. This was so unlike Jim, to so blatantly disregard the law, no matter if he owed a debt to Oswald.

No, no he couldn't let this distressing situation continue. Jim would get into so much trouble if it was discovered that he was aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law.

He drew himself up and gripped the cane more tightly to still the trembling in his hands. "Well, as you can see, I'm feeling perfectly fine now. Your job is done. You're free to go."

Jim's eyebrows went up and he didn't say anything for long moments. Oswald trembled and to his consternation, his teeth began to chatter as a chill breeze froze his legs and plastered the jacket against him.

Jim stepped toward him, grass rustling, head tilted thoughtfully. "You can't get rid of me that easily, Oz."

Oswald exhaled, feeling vaguely dizzy from the effort. Jim was at his side quickly, putting his arm around his waist.

How embarrassing. Jim had seen right through his pathetic act. But when Oswald surreptitiously side-eyed Jim, expecting to see amusement, all he saw was a calm, easygoing expression.

"I'm hardly good company, I don't see why you bother," Oswald said.

"I'll be sticking around a long time, Oz," Jim said lightly. "Might as well get used to it."

Jim certainly was being awfully nice about it all, and these little attempts at humor warmed Oswald as much as the jacket across his shoulders so that he felt tears well up in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. Jim was being himself, perfect and lovely, actually talking to Oswald without the hostility that once marked their past interactions, while Oswald was a total mess. The least Oswald could do was to hold it together and not fall to pieces over a little banter.

Oswald sniffled and rubbed his sleeve over his nose, then stopped, mortified at his crudity. His hand moving of its own accord, he reached for the handkerchief in his coat pocket...

...and came to rest on the numbers sewn onto the front of the Arkham uniform. He picked at them, frowning. "You've never stuck by me before." He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to sound so accusatory.

Jim hummed a bit, apparently unbothered. "Yeah, well, it's about time I started."

* * *

It was freezing out there and Jim was glad to lead Oswald back inside. Of course he felt he owed Oswald, but it was more than that.

 _I'm in love with you._ Words he couldn't speak. Not now.

He wasn't going to lay that on Oswald. What the hell was Oswald supposed to do with a confession of love? Jim couldn't drop a demand like that on him.

And it was a demand. That kind of thing brought a host of expectations, or at least an expectation of a proper response, and Oswald wasn't capable of it in his current condition.

Not to mention the consent issues all over the place. Jim held the power here, a fact of which he was acutely, miserably aware, and Oswald was vulnerable, wholly dependent on him. Jim wasn't going to be so selfish as to put that kind of pressure on him. Oswald needed to focus his energy on recovering.

That was all there was to it.


	6. Under the Gun

Visiting the house's garden last night must have shaken Oz out of his rut, because he finally asked to change out of the black and white Arkham uniform. Previously they'd only been able to pry him out of it when it was time to launder it.

Jim got the pajamas out of the dresser, and when he turned around, Oswald was stripping already. Oswald normally preferred privacy and Jim would have left the room, but he stopped short when he caught a glimpse of the needle tracks on Oz's arm.

Oswald responded to Jim's careful questioning that Professor Strange had told him they were vitamin shots.

From Dr. Crane, he'd overheard the professor say to Ms. Peabody.

The information steamrolled Jim, another clue to Oswald's near-constant state of terror having revealed itself, and he'd lain awake for a long time in the dark, Oswald curled up peacefully at his back, breathing steady and even.

Without concrete evidence it was impossible to be sure, but he knew in his gut that there was no way in hell those had been vitamin shots.

If Oswald had been injected with fear serum, did that mean his terror would continue to wear off, as it seemed to be doing? Albeit haphazardly, in fits and starts.

If worst came to absolute worst, he planned to request a leave of absence and to take Oswald away from Gotham, but as time went on he was less sure of the soundness of that idea.

Getting leave from the GCPD shouldn't be a problem, but while Jim was sure he could offer vague explanations about 'personal issues' to Barnes, Harvey was another matter. Harvey wouldn't buy it, not without some heavy explaining on Jim's part.

As far as moving to another town, it depended on if anyone recognized the notorious gangster, whose likeness had been in the papers more than a few times over the past year. Not that he planned on trotting Oswald around town or anything. So long as no one was on the lookout for escaped fugitives (Arkham still remained curiously silent on the Penguin's escape) Jim didn't expect too much in the way of curious looks or nosy questions.

A big city would be better for the anonymity. Metropolis, maybe. Except it was nearly as expensive to live there as in Gotham, so it was pretty far down on the list.

He'd gotten fake IDs for the both of them, which hadn't cost too much, but skipping town would bring a whole host of additional problems.

For one thing, he didn't think Zsasz and the ladies would appreciate being cut off. Taking care of Penguin wasn't exactly their forte, but it was steady income. For another, he didn't even know if Oswald would be on board with the idea.

Plus it would take additional cash, and his money was disappearing faster than a puddle in the Sahara, so if they did skip town, it'd have to be soon, before his money ran out, and he didn't relish the thought of being on the run from Zsasz with Oswald in his current state.

Disappear, show up somewhere in another town with his 'husband' and hire a home health aide or other caretaker to look after Oswald while Jim found a job.

But if Oswald continued to show improvement, then such drastic action wouldn't be necessary.

* * *

It was in this thoughtful frame of mind that Jim walked into the precinct the next morning. He was busy thinking if he could figure out how to ask Lucius more about how Crane's fear serum worked without arousing suspicion, when he caught a glimpse of Ed ducking into a stairwell on the far side of the bullpen.

He really ought to get around to asking Ed about Kristen Kringle's whereabouts, like he'd promised Lee.

In his opinion, Kristen probably had taken off with her ex, although admittedly it was a little strange that she'd done so without even leaving a forwarding address. One would think that she'd at least want her last paycheck. Then again, people sometimes acted impulsively, or found themselves entangled in situations where they acted in unconventional ways.

As if he had any right to judge.

He paused, glancing toward the stairwell. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen very much of Ed at all lately. He wasn't lurking around the canteen or hovering anxiously by his and Harvey's desks, ready to share his latest riddle at the first opportunity. If he didn't know better, he'd think Ed was avoiding him.

Or avoiding Harvey. Maybe Harvey's sniping had finally hurt Ed's feelings enough to at last drive him off.

As if summoned by Jim's thoughts, Harvey sauntered up the stairs with a greasy donut bag and a newspaper under his arm, to sit with a heavy grunt at his desk.

"Had a late night," Harvey announced with a smug grin, his usual segue into his latest conquest.

Jim braced himself for another embellished tale of sexual exploits and tossed him two files. "Hope she was worth it. You take these."

Harvey settled his reading glasses on his nose. "Heh. I wish," he chuckled. "Naw, I didn't get lucky last night. Unlike some."

"Uh-huh." Someone'd been taking his pens again. Jim rummaged around in the top drawer until he dug one out and opened the first file.

Harvey ignored the files and leaned back in his chair, opening his newspaper. "You remember to kiss Oswald good-bye?"

Jim nearly shot the pen across the desk.

Around them the buzz and hum of the station continued, while Jim tried to get his heart out of his throat and Harvey turned a few pages, apparently engrossed in the headlines.

At last Harvey seemed to decide Jim had suffered enough, and stood up. "Let's go get some coffee," Harvey said.

* * *

Jim was mildly surprised that Harvey took them to an actual coffee shop. The first rush of customers had cleared and it was relatively empty. Harvey ordered for them both and led the way to a table in the corner.

Harvey blew on the steaming mug in a meditative sort of way. Jim stared at the table rising from his own mug and waited.

"For somebody so smart, you're just about the stupidest guy I know," Harvey said calmly. He tested the coffee, then set it down with a huff, leaning closer on his elbows and taking a glance around to make sure they weren't overheard.

Harvey leaned forward on his elbows. "You're fucked. But since you obviously know that, you could do me the courtesy of telling me why. 'Cause from what I heard, you two were pretty cozy."

"You followed me from the pharmacy," Jim guessed, realizing that Harvey must have overheard them in the garden. Just his luck, the one time Oswald steps out for some fresh air.

"Goddamn right. Watched you go back in and come back out with that cane you 'found lying in the aisle.'" Harvey made air quotes with his fingers. "And you didn't even notice."

A muscle jumped in Harvey's cheek as he tightened his jaw, a sure sign he was getting impatient. "Start talkin' before I start guessing. Are you bangin' him?"

"No!" Jim shouldn't have been caught so off guard by the question, but a hot blush flooded his cheeks. "Of course not."

"Your reaction indicates otherwise," Harvey said in a flat voice.

Jim's face felt hot enough to catch fire. "He's a mental patient, for God's sake. He's not...I mean, he's vulnerable, I can't..."

Harvey waved his hands. "All right, all right. Just drop it." He glared at Jim. "Great. Guess it's true love."

Jim crossed his arms, letting slide his other reason for freeing Oswald, namely that he couldn't let Oswald take the rap for a crime they'd both committed. He wouldn't burden Harvey with that knowledge.

Harvey's eyebrows knitted together as another thought took hold. "That was a hell of a fancy neighborhood, Jim. You renting the place?"

Jim wiped his mouth, deciding that Harvey might as well know the rest. "Kind of. It's a safe house. Zsasz and the girls are...looking after him for me."

Harvey was momentarily speechless. "Them? They're..." Words failed him as he glanced around and hunched his shoulders as if even more worried about being overheard. "Holy shit," he whispered. "How're you payin' for all that?"

"I'm handling it, okay?" Jim said defensively.

Harvey shook his head. "You really going to help the Penguin get back on his feet." It was more of a statement than a question, and Jim didn't bother answering as Harvey sighed again and took out his flask to pour a generous amount of whiskey into his coffee.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Harvey muttered behind his cup.

Jim drank in silence, choosing not to divulge his alternate plan for skipping town. The less Harvey knew, the better. Not that he didn't trust him-hell, the man had him by the short and curlies, had more than enough knowledge to put Jim in the slammer-but if Harvey didn't know, then he wouldn't be able to tell.

After a few moments of weighty but companionable silence, Harvey scratched his neck. "So, uh...what're they like? Zsasz and...you know...the girls."

Jim's raised an eyebrow. Gossip, at a time like this? He shrugged. "They spend most of their time lounging around. Napping. Pretty quiet, actually. Surprisingly quiet. I guess even assassins need a little down time."

"No, I mean..." Harvey scowled while Jim put on a blank face. Like he didn't know what sort of dirt Harvey was angling for.

"Are they a threesome or what?" Harvey burst out, cutting to the chase.

Jim picked up his cup again in studied nonchalance, letting himself feel just a little bit smug. "Pretty sure Lovey and Tiff are a couple. As for Victor, I make a point of not prying into his private life."

Harvey leaned closer, waving a hand as if to brush aside any more mention of Victor. "Yeah, yeah. So, Lovey and Tiff. They got any...uh...whips, or...?"

"Jesus, Harv, I don't know!" Jim said in a fierce whisper. "It's not like they go at it in the middle of the living room."

* * *

The days continued to pass, and winter set its teeth into the city.

Harvey kept his mouth shut, and Jim worked harder than ever to prove himself worthy of Harvey's loyalty.

Little by little, Oswald continued to show signs of improvement.

One night he sidled into the kitchen and asked if there was any tea. There wasn't, but when Jim brought an assortment of black tea, green tea, herbal tea-he'd had no idea there were so many different kinds of tea- Oswald surprised them by putting a cup of water in a pot and making it himself.

Didn't ask for permission or anything.

Jim watched him from the corner of his eye, not wanting to hover, but not entirely sure Oswald ought to be messing around with the stove. The water boiled, the tea was steeped, and Oswald remembered to turn off the burner, so Jim supposed it was all right.

On another night, Oswald slipped upstairs to another part of the house to play the piano. Disconcerting to get jolted awake at two in the morning to hear music filtering through the ceiling and Oswald gone, but it was easy enough to find the source.

Jim stood in the doorway to listen as Oswald slowly and awkwardly, but determinedly, plunked out "Heart and Soul" on the off-key upright piano in the front living room of the darkened house. The dusty curtains had been drawn across the windows for years, so they were hidden from any unexpected passerby or car.

Jim listened, spellbound. He didn't know Oswald could play.

Gradually, he realized that a chance pedestrian passing on the sidewalk might overhear and wonder about the music coming from a long-abandoned house, even if it was two in the morning, and reluctantly he put a stop to it, leading Oswald back downstairs.

The sadness that fell over Oswald's face broke Jim's heart, but when he suggested to the assassins that they move the piano downstairs, they just about rioted, so he dropped the matter.

Oswald's bouts of terrified, restless pacing subsided, and at last ceased altogether.

He went through a period of excessive sleeping, dozing at the table, nodding off over a book (his attention span improved considerably), leaning against Jim on the couch and immediately dropping off, sleeping for twelve hour stretches. As if he hadn't slept in years.

Jim got into an argument about it with the assassins because he suspected they'd been drugging him again, but their outrage at the accusation seemed real enough, and they denied it vehemently. In truth Oswald seemed as all right as he ever was during the times he was awake, so Jim decided he would have to believe them.

The bags under Oswald's eyes faded, and gradually he lost the haunted, whipped-dog look on his face, and the excessive napping went away. The man must have merely been catching up on sleep.

He no longer needed to be informed it was meal time or bathroom time, and Jim was heartened by these simple acts of initiative.

As much as Oswald advanced in some matters, there were other habits that were less encouraging.

Oswald cottoned on to the blue pajamas as a substitute for the ugly Arkham uniform, and showed no interest in the other clothes Jim had bought him, though Jim made a point of demonstrating their existence, showing him the dress pants and button-up shirts folded neatly in the dresser, and ties, and a couple of suit jackets in the closet. Just stuff off the rack, hardly the custom suits Oswald used to wear, but Jim felt they were serviceable.

Oswald warily commented that they looked very nice, but he was so taken aback by Jim's suggestion that he get dressed for the day he looked close to panic, and Jim didn't press him.

Jim suggested, half-jokingly, that they burn the Arkham uniform, but Oswald was horrified by the suggestion, stammered about taking care of other people's property, and neatly folded it up and stored it in a drawer.

Oswald showed little interest in things that were happening outside the safehouse. He was much calmer, without a doubt, but calm almost to the point of lethargy, and appeared all set to start a new career as a recluse.

The assassins were getting restless. Jim occasionally got the impression that they were having conversations that stopped as soon as Jim reached the bottom of the stairs and came into the basement.

He made sure to have their weekly pay on time, but he wondered how much the paltry sums, as regular as they were, stacked up against the usual fees they were used to getting for their services.

* * *

The gangs had been amazingly well behaved for a long time after Oswald's incarceration, but now it looked like another turf war was brewing.

Butch let slide his half-assed efforts to rule the gangs, losing interest in the work when Tabitha came into his life. As long as the club and the immediate environs was left alone, they appeared to be perfectly willing to let the rest of the city get trashed. The squabbles escalated, got bloodier.

Oswald never would have let things spiral out of control like this, Jim fumed as the GCPD arrived on the scene of the latest scuffle, just in time to arrest the gangmembers who were too injured to run away, gather evidence to figure out who shot whom (or stabbed, or delivered a killing blow with a blunt object), wrap up the rest in bodybags, and question witnesses in the surrounding buildings. None of whom saw or heard anything. Typical of the Narrows.

They had their hands full, and Jim felt more like a referee than a detective, but in truth it was a welcome distraction from his other worries.

Then one day Harvey drew him aside and told him in an urgent whisper that he'd gotten wind of a drug pusher named Robert Staples getting arrested, for possession and for practicing medicine without a license, and that the guy was making noise about having dirt on the Penguin.

Jim frowned, thinking it over. The name didn't ring any bells. Who could possibly think they had anything to gain with a claim like that? Everybody thought Penguin was locked away, and any inside information was bound to be ice-cold by now, wasn't going to be much interest to the DA. The perp was probably making shit up to get attention.

Practicing medicine without a...

Jim's blood ran cold. "Dr. Bob?"

Harvey nodded grimly. "Yeah, that's his street name. What's he got on Penguin?"

"The safe house," Jim whispered. "He's seen Oswald."

"Ain't too safe, then." Harvey glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard, then leaned in closer. "Dr. Bob got arrested by a couple of unis. They didn't believe him. His file's gone to the DA's, it's under a pile of other cases, but if he keeps yapping about Penguin, somebody might sit up and take notice."

He looked over his shoulder again. "Now, I know a gal, clerk to the assistant DA. Old friend, if you know what I mean." Harvey smirked and gave a lascivious wink.

Jim rolled his eyes but couldn't help but let out a little huff, amused despite himself. "Yeah, I get it, Harv."

"Might be I can help you out. With a little persuasion, she could be inspired to make the whole thing disappear."

Jim sobered. "I owe you one."

"You owe me two, but hey, who's counting?" Harvey clapped him on the back.

Unfortunately, Harvey's charms failed to work their magic, and he returned to Jim with the news that it was going to take more than some sweet loving to 'inspire' his gal pal to spring Dr. Bob on a technicality.

"She's engaged," he complained. "Says she doesn't want to mess it up. Can you believe she said no to this?" He gestured expansively at himself. "But she'll do it, if it's worth her time. She wants four thousand."

Jim's mind reeled. "Dollars?"

"No, paper clips. Of course it's dollars!" He relented at Jim's stricken expression. "Buddy, I get the feeling you're getting to the end of your rope. Can't you have Zsasz and his killer ladies sneak in and have a talk with Dr. Bob? A little reminder about what happens to squealers? That'd shut him up."

Jim balked. He could only imagine how that would turn out. They'd probably charge him another arm and a leg, and what if they decided to cap Dr. Bob on the spot to save time?

Besides that, they might find out that Harvey knew about the Penguin, and that was something that Jim wanted to keep from them.

They need a boss, Oswald had said, but Jim didn't feel he'd be able to exert enough authority over them in this matter. He felt like if he sent them on this errand he would be setting loose hired killers that had been too long under leash.

He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache creeping in. There were too many potential complications, too many ways it could go wrong. Ironically, he wished he could have consulted Oswald about this. "No. Not possible. Can't do that, Harv. I can cover it. Tell her I'll have the money tomorrow."  
Harvey regarded him in silence for several moments before he heaved a long sigh. "Look, I'll see how much I can scrape up."

By the end of the shift, Harvey handed him four hundred bucks, and Jim didn't have the heart to nobly refuse, or to ask where it came from, because he needed every little bit he could get. He accepted it humbly and thanked Harvey profusely, then plodded to the bank for another withdrawal to cover the rest of it.

* * *

Jim made his way to the safe house with the latest pasttime for Oswald, an old puzzle he'd dug out of storage, because he sure as hell couldn't buy anything new right now. Drained and feeling more and more as if a boulder were teetering on a cliff over his head, he wanted very badly to have a quiet evening with Oswald.

His next paycheck was coming soon, he reminded himself in a kind of mantra in order to still the pit of anxiety that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach. Right now he had just enough to cover the weekly pay for Victor and his merry crew, then he'd have to tighten his belt and sit tight.

He heard the excited voices as he went down the stairs, and tensed. With a sense of foreboding he walked in to see the assassins surrounding Oswald in a state of excitement, and Tiff pushing a shotgun into Oswald's hands.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jim said, striding across the room and taking the gun from Oswald. Just in time, too, as Oswald had practically dropped it when Tiff shoved it at him.

"You're always bitching we need to give him stuff to do," Zsasz said, reaching for the shotgun, but Jim angled it out of reach. Victor snorted, amused at Jim's reaction and crossed his arms. "Guns are stuff."

"He can barely use the stove, you think he can handle a firearm?" Jim snapped.

Oswald was taking quick little breaths, rubbing his upper arms, eyes wide as he shifted nervously from foot to foot.

Jim cleared his throat. "I...I'm not sure you're well enough, Oz," he said. He couldn't tell if Oz was spooked at the proximity of the gun or if Jim's shouting had unnerved him.

"S'not loaded," Lovey said, clicking her tongue. "We're not stupid."

"Thought it'd help, you know, bring him back more," Tiff said. "You seen Penguin use a shotgun? He's a goddamn artist."

The three assassins chuckled knowingly, elbowing each other. "And knives," Lovey chuckled.

"And corkscrews," Victor added, grinning. "Remember that guy he..."

"Oswald and I are going to work on this puzzle," Jim declared, not wanting to hear what Oswald had done with a corkscrew. "It's a lot more... more..."

"Innocuous?" Oswald supplied.

"Yeah, that's it. Innocuous. Thank you, Oz." With a sense of triumph he led the way to the kitchen table, Oswald dutifully trailing in his wake.

Behind him, Lovey and Tiff made exasperated sounds, while Zsasz threw his hands up. "Whatever," he said in an aggrieved voice, and sprawled across the couch, stabbing at the remote as if he had a grudge against it.

Grumbling, Tiff and Lovey went to the drinks cupboard, loudly discussing which club to attend that night, and soon they disappeared into the night, sharing a bottle of whiskey.

They must have iron stomachs. It amazed Jim that he'd never once seen them actually drunk.

Jim opened the box to spread the pieces around. He and Oswald turned over all the pieces so they were right side up, and they got started.

Jim had always liked doing puzzles with his mom when he was younger. Putting it all together just right, each piece in its proper place to form a recognizable image was immensely satisfying, entirely unlike real life, which rarely had pieces that fit together well.

The quietness helped take the edge off his anxiety. Time enough to worry over the problem with money and how to get a hold of more of it.

Jim started with the edge pieces. That was always the best starting place.

"Rained today," he said. "Wasn't cold enough to snow, but almost."

Oswald was hunting for edge pieces, too. And there was a comfortable little silence while they sorted them out and turned them right side up.

Jim was used to these one-sided converstions, though he liked to pause now and again in case Oswald had something to add.

"Was there a rainbow?" Oswald asked.

Jim glanced up, a little surprised at this early contribution to the talk. "No, I don't think so."

Jim checked the picture on the box against the edge pieces he'd collected, studying them to see if they better matched the side or the bottom.

"I saw a double rainbow once," Oswald said. "I was waiting for my mother to get off work. I was...eleven, I think. She was cleaning up at the restaurant, told me to wait for her in the park. It had stopped raining by then, and I could see the sun just beginning to set between the buildings. I turned around, and there it was, a double rainbow."

"Must have been quite a sight," Jim said calmly, though inside his heart warmed. That was a long speech for Oswald.

Oswald nodded, pushing a few similarly-colored pieces of the puzzle into a rough circle. "Yes, indeed. And then Butch rode by on a bicycle and I stabbed him."

Jim stilled, looked at Oswald warily.

Oswald had also gone still, and he ran his hands along the edge of the table. "But that...isn't right, is it?"

"I don't see how it could be," Jim said. Curiosity made him wonder how old Oswald was when he first started carrying a knife (when did he first use it? when was his first kill? Jim quickly squelched these unhelpful thoughts.) "Did you even know Butch when you were eleven?"

"No, I didn't." Oswald sucked in his lips, and shook his head as he went back to sorting. "So tiring," he said quietly. "A perfectly sound memory comes to me, and then something ghastly inserts itself, so seamlessly I can barely tell. I must continually pause to think about if what I'm remembering is real or not. Or if some parts are accurate, while certain other details are twisted."

Oswald shook himself abruptly, as if physically dislodging something, and at once his eyes changed, bright with sudden lucidity.

"They must be working you awfully hard, Jim," Oswald said, reaching out to lay a hand on Jim's forearm. "And you haven't been sleeping well. Is everything okay?"

Jim blinked. Oswald had not only noticed Jim's was having trouble getting to sleep but was concerned enough to ask after his health. Not that it wasn't nice, but...

Across the room, Victor didn't so much as turn his head, but Jim sensed the killer's attention shift from the TV to their conversation.

Uneasiness ran along his spine, as if Jim were under the lazy regard of a predator.

Jim would have to take care what he revealed to Oswald, even when they were alone in the darkness of their shared bed. Not only did he not want to worry him, but if Oswald didn't know about Jim's financial troubles, then he wouldn't accidentally make an innocent remark about it to the assassins.

He made his voice light. "Been some long hours, yeah," he agreed. "Lot of gang activity. I'm fine. Some tea would be great," he added as he briefly put his hand over Oswald's where it lay on his arm, because it seemed like Oswald wanted to do something for him.

Oswald's eyes searched his face as if he, too, sensed Jim wasn't being entirely forthright, and then he smiled and got up to put the water on to boil.

* * *

The notice that came in the mail informing Jim that his bank account was overdrawn, with two separate hundred dollar overdraft fees on top of it, was a punch to the gut.


End file.
